


Reclamation

by madscientist1313



Series: Supernova [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers Family, Bucky Barnes AU, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes-centric, Civil War (Marvel), Comedy, Depression, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mutants, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Romance, Slow Burn, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 213,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madscientist1313/pseuds/madscientist1313
Summary: It’s such a strange feeling… getting put back together. Especially when, for the longest time, she hadn’t even realized that she was coming apart. But Tessa is ready… she thinks. She’s ready to be whole again. She’s ready to rediscover her past. And her powers.And the moment Bucky speaks those words, so softly into her ear –I don’t think I could ever be whole without you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Whatever forever means for us… I want to spend forever with you.– she feels ready for so much more.But how long can forever really be when the world always seems to be crumbling around you? And when the people you love most suddenly find themselves on the brink of war?





	1. I Told You So

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably all make a lot more sense if you're already acquainted with the Supernova Series... which I would love for you to read! As for this installment of Supernova... Bucky and Tessa are eager to get on with their lives, but they have some pretty big hurdles to get over first... not the least of which is her rediscovering her past, and in so doing, finding a new path.

Bucky lets out a short, disgruntled moan when the alarm goes off. He rolls over and props himself up on his elbows to see the burning blue lights on the clock. Five AM. Why the hell did he tell Steve he’d help him out with the early morning training runs?

“Turn it off,” Tessa mumbles into her pillow as the alarm continues to beep. Then, when he doesn’t move fast enough… “Kill it!”

He reaches across her to bat at the alarm clock on the side table, taking two swift thwacks to knock it into submission. “You could do it yourself, you know,” he mutters with a yawn. “It’s on your side.”

She rolls over to face him, and though the room is dark, the sun not even yet beginning to rise, he can still make out her irritated scowl. “Not my side,” she argues, words slurred with sleep. “I _hate_ this side.”

It’s true. Technically, that’s _his_ side of the bed… had been ever since he first started sleeping over at her place a little more than two years ago. But he made her switch with him when they first came home from the hospital several weeks back. He simply wasn’t able to sleep beside her knowing that her badly broken leg was laying prone between them, where he could so easily roll over and hurt her. “It feels weird. I don’t like it,” she had complained every night for the first few weeks. “This isn’t right.”

It did feel strange, that much was true. But he suspected that the main reason she didn’t like it was that the alarm lock – which Bucky very rarely even set – had remained to the left. “Deal with it,” he tells her now, leaning down and laying a giant, sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“Ugh,” she groans, swatting him away.

He laughs as he reaches out and grabs her hand, pulling it to his lips. “Be good.” He kisses her fingertips as he gently thumbs the giant gem on her ring finger back and forth. “Don’t lose this,” he says with a smile so wide it almost gleams, even in the pitch dark.

She pulls her hand away and folds it beneath her chest as she sleepily curls up in the center of the bed. “Don’t tell Steve,” she issues out into her pillow as she feels him pull back the covers beside her.

He frowns. “Why not?”

“Because,” she yawns. “I want to be there.”

Bucky huffs a, “Fine,” as he slips out of bed and sneaks from the room. He stops in the doorway and turns back to her, a sliver of moonlight reflecting off her naked shoulder, the only piece of her that isn’t buried beneath the giant quilt or her wild hair. “I’ll be back by nine,” he says, deep voice breaking through the early morning calm. “Be ready to go.”

000

They take the rookies out into the cold and make them run until the sun comes up. It’s dark enough in the beginning that no one can see the dumb, goofy smile that simply _refuses_ to leave his face. But he feels it just the same, pulling at his lips just as it pulls at his heart. Once they take them all inside, they split the noobs into two groups – one to spar with Bucky, the other to hit the machines with Steve.

“You look like you’re in a good mood, Sarge,” Atkinson says with a gleam in her eye. She’s one of just four women here, a petite blonde who looks more like a kindergarten teacher than a field agent. But she’s scrappy as hell and smart to boot. “You have a good holiday?” she asks, settling into a fight stance across from him.

He tries to reign in the smile, but it’s useless. “Yeah, I did,” he tells her blithely before advancing and taking her to the ground.

She twists beneath him, quickly snaking her leg up around his shoulder and scissoring down to throw him to the mat. “Good,” she replies, flinging her tiny body on top of his chest. “We were starting to think you only ever had one mood – ” She narrows her eyes at him even as a wide grin splits her face. “ _Kill_.”

He lets her pin him down for another few seconds before easily popping upright and throwing her off balance. He wraps his arms around her torso and rolls quickly into a seated position above her, the writhing woman trapped beneath him as he tightens his thighs around her hips and pins her shoulders to the mat. “ _Kill_ ’s not a mood,” he tells her, leaning in close. She scowls at him, almost enraged by her inability to move. “It’s what you _do_.” He continues to pinch his thighs around her, but he drops his hands from her shoulders as he sits upright. Seeing her angry countenance, oddly, only makes his smile grow. “So do it,” he orders with a teasing wink.

Ground fighting, boxing, a little bit of Muay Thai… the group keeps at it for another hour and a half until Steve wanders over and dismisses them. He leans back, arms folded neatly over his chest, and observes the small group of sweaty, beat recruits. “They’re looking pretty good,” he says, turning to Bucky with a self-satisfied smirk. “You went hard on them today.”

Bucky nods, reaching over and grabbing a towel off the bench next to him. He glances over at the haphazard pile of limbs on the mat, all five of the spent soldiers splayed out in an exhausted heap. He narrows his eyes at them. “Captain said you’re dismissed,” he nearly shouts, causing every one of them to pop up and scatter from the gym.

“You like this,” Steve says with a teasing laugh, noting the glint in Bucky’s eye as he watches the team hightail it out of there. “And you’re good at it.”

He gives a noncommittal shrug, wiping the sweat from his brow as he drops down onto the bench. “If you say so.”

Steve stares down at him for a long moment before taking a seat by his side. “Good to be home?” he asks simply.

“Yeah,” he replies. “It’s quiet at least.” Steve sniggers at the remark. “You heading back out to… wherever you were in Africa?” he asks, shifting to look at his friend.

“Nah,” Steve breathes out. “Sam and Storm are keeping tabs for now.”

Bucky raises a brow. “That’s not gonna be a problem, is it? The two of them?”

Steve just laughs. “No. No, I think Storm’s too smart for that. Besides,” he starts with a sly grin, “Sam’s been seeing someone.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “I know. Some bartender from Queens.”

Steve shoots him a look of utter shock. “He told you about her?” Again, Bucky nods. “When? I just found out a few days ago.”

He shrugs. “Couple weeks back… maybe more. He and Tess have spent a lot of time baking in the apartment. I’ve heard all kinds of things about his love life that I’ll never be able to unhear.” He shakes his head pitifully. “Makes a hell of an oatmeal cookie, though.”

Another chuckle rises from Steve’s chest. “Well, he should be back soon,” he says, leaning back to rest his head on the wall behind him. “Doesn’t look like Rumlow and his crew have anything going right now. I’m sure they’re planning something, but until we know what…”

“Storm,” Bucky begins, uttering her name slowly, cautiously. His forehead furrows, brows knitting together. “You said she’s smart. Got any more of a read on her?”

“Yeah,” he replies, eyes widening as he sits upright. “Yeah, actually, I got to know her a bit. Logan – that guy spent five hours sitting across from me at a café in Ibadan and didn’t say a single word. But Storm… she seems like good people.”

Bucky gives a curt nod. “Good,” he says a bit absently, his mind beginning to wander.

“You should hear her talk about her kids. I mean… the kids at the school.” He shakes his head distractedly. “It’s crazy, you know,” he starts, turning his gaze on Bucky. “When we were their age, people like them – people like _us_ – that was just… stories. Books, movies, fairy tales. But they were out there then. We just didn’t know.” He releases a long, deep sigh. “I volunteered for a science experiment and became a star… a hero. They were born… _super_ … and they had to hide to stay alive.” Bucky frowns over at him, a question in his gaze. “You remember that camp we liberated?” he asks, his face somber. “The one outside of Linz?”

He nods. “Hard to forget.”

“They were there,” he mutters, turning his eyes out toward the bay of windows across the room. “All of those people… the people Hydra pulled from other camps to bring there… they were all mutants.”

“She told you that?” he asks, wrinkling his brow once more. “How does she know that?”

He shrugs quickly, his shoulders sagging. “They’ve kept a history of their people.” He glances back up at Bucky, says with a soft, sad smile, “No one else cared enough to do it.”

Both of the men turn away then, working to focus their eyes anywhere else in the room. Bucky releases a shaky breath. “People are paying attention now,” he says. “Between science experiments like us and those… inhumans…”

“Yeah, I know. Storm said that their enrollment almost doubled last year. Parents trying to get rid of their _freak_ kids.” He blows out an irritated breath. “Or… I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to get them somewhere safe because they know what’s coming.”

Bucky cocks his head, glaring hard at Steve. “What’s coming?”

He drops a hand to his friend’s knee and gives it a sharp squeeze. “You should talk to them,” he says, eyes wide and knowing. “The X-Men have their finger on the pulse of the mutant community. They know about things going on that we… Let’s just say some things haven’t made it into the mainstream media yet.”

“Like what?” he asks, genuine concern rolling over his features.

“Canada’s about to announce plans for a registry. A mutant registry.”

“You’re shitting me?” he utters, sitting bolt upright.

Steve simply nods. “And there are a handful of US senators who are pushing for the same thing here.” He gives Bucky another sad smile. “Storm thinks it’s in part because SHIELD’s gone. They used to keep track of _potential threats_ , so known mutants were already in their database. But now that they’re defunct, nobody’s keeping an eye on them anymore. People are scared.” He shifts suddenly, scrubbing his palms quickly along the tops of his thighs before hopping up and looking down at Bucky with an encouraging expression. “It’s all just talk right now, though.”

“Yeah,” he says pulling himself up off the bench with a groan. “It’s always _talk_. Until it isn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to bum you out,” he says with a crooked smile. “You were in such a good mood earlier.” Bucky gives him a confused look and Steve just laughs. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve had a giant grin on your face all morning.”

He turns to him with a teasing expression, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he works to hold back a smile. “I have?”

“Yeah, you have,” he nods. “Should I ask?”

He quirks a brow playfully. “Got lucky last night… must be that.”

Steve shakes his head as he sniggers. “Don’t tell me that. I heard enough about your sex life before the war.”

Unbidden, the big goofy grin rolls back over his face. “Not what I meant,” he says lightly, shaking his head with a chuckle.

Steve stops in his tracks, just before reaching the door to the gym, and turns a suspicious glare on his friend. “Okay,” he drawls out, seemingly intrigued. “What _did_ you mean?”

He continues to shake his head, his cheeks turning a bright crimson. “I can’t tell you that,” he says with a lilt.

Steve stares at him incredulously, his mouth agape. Bucky’s always been a pretty straight shooter. He might tease when it suits him, but he never plays games like this. “Bullshit,” he says, watching the smile on his friend’s face grow even wider. “What?”

He clears his throat and does his best to bring his expression back to a stoic one. “If I tell you,” he almost whispers, leaning in conspiratorially, “you have to keep your mouth shut.” He leans back on his heels and asks, “Can you do that?”

Steve rolls his eyes, an impatient, “Of course I can,” quickly spilling from his lips.

Bucky looks at him assessingly, narrowing his eyes as he makes like he’s deciding whether or not Captain freakin’ America can be trusted. Then he blurts out, “I asked Tessa to marry me. And she said yes.”

He watches Steve’s face as it makes the slow transition from annoyed to intrigued to down-right elated. “I _told_ you she would,” he nearly shouts before launching himself forward. He’s so quick to wrap his arms around him that Bucky doesn’t even have the chance to hug him back. Steve gives him a quick squeeze followed by a hard slap on the back, and then he lets go and teeters back on his heels, positively beaming at his friend. “I told you so.”

Bucky laughs as he says, “You’ve gotta stop saying that.”

“Sorry,” Steve chuckles. “How ‘bout congratulations… can I say that?”

Bucky’s face falls as he all at once realizes what he’s just done. “No,” he says with a sudden frown. “No, actually you can’t.” Steve’s brows pull together, utter confusion washing over his face. “You don’t know,” Bucky tells him, raising a single pointed finger. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Tessa wanted us to tell you together.”

“Oh,” Steve hums, nodding slowly. “Wow. You really screwed that up, huh?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and nails Steve with a swift punch to the shoulder before hissing out, “You punk.”

Steve sniggers to himself. “Don’t worry,” he says as Bucky moves past him and heads out to the hall. “Your secret’s safe with me.”


	2. New Office Smell

The café is nearly empty. No surprise at 3 o’clock on a Thursday, especially two days after Christmas. But the stillness of the place feels odd and a bit off-putting as they sit alone in the corner, quietly arguing about what the rest of their day holds.

“I don’t understand,” Tessa contends, staring down at the torn-apart croissant in front of her. “You don’t want to see where I work?”

Bucky rolls his eyes at her and places some more quiche onto her plate. “I know where you work. I used to live in the tower.”

She slides the plate away to the center of the table and reaches instead for her nearly empty coffee mug. “But I have a new office. And it’s _huge_. And you’ve never seen it.”

He looks down at the plate, then back up at her, his eyes flicking in a silent but serious command to _eat that_. She knew this was going to happen. She _knew_ he shouldn’t have come along with her to her doctor’s appointment this morning. She knew that he’d take in every _little_ thing that the doctor said and make it into a _huge_ deal.

_Nutrition_. Blech. Her problem wasn’t what she ate. It was just… “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky lets out a labored sigh and shakes his head. “Why are you always so damn stubborn?”

“I’m not being stubborn. I’m just not hungry,” she insists.

He gives her a _get real_ stare and says, “You’re being stubborn about taking the advice of a doctor who isn’t _you_.” Tessa flops back into her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling like a petulant five-year-old. “What did she say?” he asks with an airy sort of impatience.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I think you’re focusing on the wrong things. She said that my leg looks good and I’m cleared for physical therapy.”

“And she also said that you’re going need to eat better and get more protein to build back up the muscles.”

“ _And_ ,” she interrupts, leaning forward and dropping her elbows to the table. “She said that my kidney function is great.”

“She said ‘good’, not ‘great.’ And you’re still anemic and she thinks it’s because you’re not getting enough iron in your diet.”

“She _thinks_ ,” she snipes with an arrogant flip of her hair.

His gaze hardens with frustration as he continues to drive his point home. “How much weight did she say you lost? Just over the last six weeks?” Tessa continues to frown, her jaw ticking as she slowly averts her eyes. “And that’s just since you left the hospital. Doesn’t even _touch_ the past six months… the past year.” He continues to stare at her, waiting for her to speak, to react in some way other than by idly chewing at the inside of her cheek as she sulks in front of him. “I don’t get it,” he says after a long moment, his voice echoing a bit through the otherwise silent café. “You know this is a problem. I’ve been telling you it’s a problem. Dr. Hammond is saying it’s a problem. You’re a doctor, Tessa. You damn well know this is a problem.”

Her head dips, eyes dropping to her lap, as she says, barely a whisper, “I know.”

“So eat the damn quiche!”

She looks up at him with sad, apologetic eyes. “I’m not lying when I say I’m not hungry. It isn’t…” Her lips pull shut as she struggles to think of what to say. “I’m not trying to…” she tries again, before giving up with a huff.

He reaches out and takes her hand, absently pivoting the emerald ring back and forth on her finger. “I know you’re not _trying_ to do anything. And I know that you’ve got a lot on your mind right now, and that’s what’s got you all in knots. I get it. But, baby, you gotta eat. It’s just that simple.”

She looks over at the by-now-cold quiche and frowns down at it. “If I eat it, can I show you my office?”

He leans back with a sigh. “It’s freezing out. And I don’t think you should be traipsing all over the city on crutches.”

She gives him an incredulous look – “It’s two blocks away!” – before reaching out and slowly pulling the plate over to her. “You just don’t want to see Tony,” she taunts, scooping a piece of food into her mouth.

“That’s a safe bet,” he issues out softly, lips perking at the corners when he sees her stick her fork back in for more. He watches her closely for a long moment, studies the sallowness of her cheeks, the jut of her chin made more prominent by her thinned face. His expression gradually melts into a deep frown as he begins to think about how they got here… and how much further they have to go. “Did you call Xavier?” he asks once she pops in the final bite of quiche.

She nods and swallows. “Saturday morning. I told him I’d be there by eleven.”

“Okay,” he says, hesitation clear in his voice. He looks up at her and gives her a tight smile. “Eleven on Saturday.”

“You don’t have to come,” she tells him gently. “Really. I can do this on my own.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “Nope. Not on your own. That’s what we agreed to. We’re in this together,” he says, eyes bouncing down to the engagement ring on her finger then back up to her bright green eyes.

A small, almost shy smile rolls over her features. “Okay.” She takes one last sip of her cold coffee and starts to rise from the table. “Come on,” she groans, awkwardly shifting her weight as she positions the crutches beneath her arms. “Let’s go see my new office.”

He tries to argue against it, cites all of the reasons why they really should just head back home. But of course he gives in. Somehow, yet again, she manages to get her way. “You should’ve been a lawyer,” he mumbles as he blows hot breath onto his gloved hands, the cold wind whipping through his coat as they walk the city streets. He glances down to see that she’s not even wearing gloves, her white knuckles bare as she holds tight to the crutches. He rolls his eyes at her foolishness for the umpteenth time today. “I don’t know how you’re able to talk me into _everything_.”

“I don’t know either,” she says, already sounding a bit out of breath. “But speaking of that, we’re going to the New Year’s party.”

He stops in his tracks, irritation clear on his face amid his bright cheeks and wind-burned nose. “Why?”

She laughs – less at his question and more at the childlike tone it’s asked in – before marching on towards the Tower. “Because it’s a party,” she throws over her shoulder, ducking into the alleyway that leads back to the new employee entrance.

He follows quickly and helps her peel her ID from her pocket when it becomes abundantly clear that her fingers are utterly numb. “But… we just got back home. I thought we could have a quiet New Year’s… just us.” He badges in and ushers her into the building, stopping short when she turns just inside the doorway and lays a chaste kiss on the tip of his frozen nose.

“We can do that,” she says to him, her voice low despite there being no one around to hear them. “But first, we should go to the party. Just for a little bit.” She starts for the elevators, Bucky trudging despondently behind her. “I don’t think anyone actually expects me to stay all night anyway. But… it’s a party!”

He sticks close to her side as she navigates the halls of the new medical research floor – or _floors_ really. They bypassed the first one, Tessa explaining quickly that the two labs on that level are off limits to any non-essential personnel. He’s got to admit, the whole thing is really impressive. Just a few short months ago this place was a gutted remnant. Now there are secure passageways everywhere he looks – storage and small labs and offices. There’s odd machinery humming in various rooms along the corridors, hidden away behind slightly tinted glass. And there are dozens of people bustling around in white coats, each of whom takes a brief pause in their frenetic scurrying to nod at Tessa as they pass by.

“They all know you?” he asks, a hint of wonder to his voice as he turns and follows one young man with his eyes.

“Well, most of them already worked here before.” She tosses a deprecating glance at him as they pull up to a short corridor. “You just never came to see me in the lab, so you never met any of them.”

“The lab is your playground, not mine.”

She moves to the door at the end of the short hall and swipes her badge. “I’ve gone down to the gym to find you,” she snipes. “Hell, I’ve even ventured out to the track.”

“Yeah, but that’s ‘cause you just can’t stand to be away from me,” he teases, broad smile faltering when he follows her through the door and gets a look at the office.

Tessa lays her crutches against the giant mahogany desk and clumsily pulls herself up to sit atop it. “So?” she asks, positively beaming as she flings her arms wide. “What do you think?”

He raises his eyebrows appraisingly as he slowly looks around the room. It’s about twice the size of her last office in the tower – and her office at the compound now. And it lacks the sort of familiar coziness that those two rooms always held for him, complete with the old broke-down sofa and scent of stale coffee. This room smells like new carpet with a hint of fresh paint. But it is impressive, especially the massive built-ins filled top to bottom with books and trinkets he didn’t even know she owned.

His eyes land on a small grouping of framed photos on one of the shelves.

“Yeah,” Tessa utters, watching as he moves closer to investigate. “After the accident, Pepper sort of took over in here. She made sure everything was put away, and then she decided to decorate.”

He leans in to look at the pictures. “Yeah, I was pretty surprised to see that there aren’t any half-unpacked boxes lying around.” The first picture is one of Tessa and Natasha, smiling like drunken, beautiful fools in what looks to be a low-lit nightclub. He sniggers a bit at the sheer _cuteness_ that shines through former-assassin Romanov.

He looks over to the next and, without thinking, pulls it from the shelf. It’s an old black-and-white of him and Steve… one of many taken on a day when the Howling Commandos allowed the press to come in and document a day in the life. The two men are laughing at something – probably joking about how ridiculous and phony the whole thing was. As though the press would ever really be let into the goings-on of the Commandos. He lightly brushes his thumb over the gleeful faces of the young men, a small smile spreading across his own face as a familiar warmth pools in his chest.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Tessa hums in his ear.

He starts just a bit, so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even realized she’d moved over to him. He gives a short laugh as he wraps his arm around her waist. “I don’t totally remember that day,” he says. “But I do remember people telling us how to stand… and not to look at the camera.”

“You were models for a day,” she laughs. “Vogueing in the middle of a war.” She shakes her head in amusement as he pulls away and sets the frame back on the shelf. “I love it.”

“Now this one,” he intones, pointing at the next photo. “This one, I love.”

She looks at the three smiling faces – Steve, Bucky, and herself – standing in front of the Cyclone at Coney Island. All three of them have ruddy cheeks and red noses, a bit of cloudiness can even be seen in the corner of the photo from where Steve huffed out a hot breath into the cold winter air. “I’ve never thrown up into a trashcan and gotten frostbite within the same hour before,” she says. “It was a magical place.”

“Hey, I told you not to eat that third hot dog before getting on the coaster,” he defends with a wry grin. He pulls her closer and nuzzles her neck, eliciting another small giggle from her as his stubble tickles her chin.

“One minute you tell me _not_ to eat, the next you’re practically shoving food down my throat.” She leans back and lets out a dramatic sigh. “If only I knew then how fickle you’d become.”

He trails a few lazy kisses down her neck before landing at her collarbone and giving a quick nip. She releases a short squeak and smacks him playfully on the shoulder. “Ow,” he laments with a pout as he pulls away. He lets out another small chuckle before returning his gaze to the shelf and spying a picture of Tessa, Tony, and Bruce huddled together in front of a computer somewhere, each of their intent, focused expressions mirroring the other’s. “Where did she even get these?” he asks, a bit bewildered. The one from Coney Island must’ve come from Steve since it was taken with his phone. And the old press photo was probably part of the Smithsonian’s collection – hell, they may have even made that into a postcard for all he knew. But…

“I have my ways,” interrupts his thoughts, the foreign voice causing him to whip around so fast he almost knocks Tessa over beside him. He quickly wraps his metal arm around her hip to steady her, looking up at Pepper as she glides into the room. A bright, lovely smile spreads across her face as she releases a light laugh. “Be careful, Sergeant Barnes. We’re still hoping to get her back in one piece.”

Bucky nods at the statuesque woman in front of him and prepares to say something in greeting, but he’s interrupted by the awful intrusion of Tony Stark and his big mouth. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, eyes trained on Tessa as he sidles up next to Pepper. “You’re still supposed to be on leave. Recovering. Are you recovered?” He raises a single brow at her, his assessing gaze traveling the full length of her body. “You don’t look recovered.”

“Tony,” Pepper chides, giving him a little shove. She turns her attention back to Tessa. “I think you look wonderful.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “You didn’t really think you could get in here without me knowing, did you?”

“You’ve got all security on high alert, do you?” Tessa questions with a challenging raised brow of her own.

He simply smirks. “Always.”

“So,” Pepper starts again, her eyes enthusiastically bouncing back and forth between Tessa and Bucky, “what do you think of the place?”

Tessa offers a wide, grateful smile. “It’s _awesome_. Really. Even if I hadn’t gotten hurt, I wouldn’t have had this place looking this good by now.”

“Of course not,” Tony scoffs. “You would’ve been busy doing actual work.”

Pepper leans into him and angrily whispers, “Are you saying that I wasn’t doing _actual work_ by setting this up for her?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I would never say that. I may have _implied_ it…”

“We don’t even have pictures like this in our apartment,” Tessa interjects.

“Oh,” Pep chimes. “Well, actually, you do. I mean, in your apartment here.” She turns to Bucky. “I fixed it up a bit since you were there last. Made it more… homey.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he replies, struggling to keep the words from sounding ungrateful. But the truth is, “That’s not really our place.”

Pepper ducks her head a bit. “No, I know. But it is…” she trails off slowly, quirking her head to the side as she focuses her gaze on the glint coming from Tessa’s left hand. “Is that…” she steps forward and reaches out to pull the hand up into the light. “A ring?”

“Oh God,” Tony grumbles, smacking himself in the forehead and running the heavy hand slowly down his face. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

Again, Pepper leans back to give him a quick slap – “Tony!” – before moving in and wrapping Tessa in a gentle embrace. She reaches out with her other hand and lays it atop Bucky’s shoulder, gives him a firm squeeze as she says, her voice bubbling with sweet sincerity, “I’m so happy for you two.”

“Thanks,” Tessa breathes out, connecting nervous eyes with Bucky. They hadn’t really talked about how to break the news of their engagement to people. But _had_ they actually discussed who to tell first, well, Tony certainly wouldn’t have made the list.

Pepper pulls away just in time for Tony to stride forward. He levels Tessa with an appraising stare. “Are you pregnant?”

“Tony,” Pepper scolds, yet again.

Tessa just rolls her eyes. “Yes. He knocked me up and now my father’s forcing us both into a shotgun wedding.”

Tony narrows his eyes at her for a long moment, the ridiculousness of it causing a snort of laughter to spill out of her. He leans in close, turning his back to Bucky and whispering to her from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to do this. Just tell me the safe word and I’ll get you out of this mess.”

She leans in as well and whispers to him. “Safe words are for pussies.”

He pulls back and nods. “They are. They definitely are.” Then, following a long, deep, steadying breath, he straightens his shoulders and turns to face Bucky. Extending his hand, he says, in the most Tony way possible, “If you ever hurt her I can – and _will_ – have you killed.” Bucky eyes his hand suspiciously, his own twitching at his side as he contemplates whether or not to accept the gesture. “C’mon, man,” Tony barks at him. Tentatively, Bucky reaches out and the two briefly shake hands.

“Aw,” Tessa croons mockingly. “This is the happiest day of my life.” The moment the handshake stops, both men drop their hands to their sides and wipe their palms on their pants. She frowns down at the action and mumbles, “Yeah, that’s more like it.”

“Congratulations,” Pepper enthuses, pulling Tony back to her side with a forceful grip. “When’s the big day?”

Tessa’s eyes go wide and she pivots to look at Bucky. “Uh,” he mutters. “We haven’t really gotten that far yet.”

“Oh?”

“This just happened last night,” he finishes with a crooked smile.

“Last night?!” Tony claps his hands together and laughs. “Holy hell… have you told people yet? Are we the first to know? I mean, I _should_ be the first… obviously. But – ”

“Please don’t tell anyone, Tony,” Tessa ekes out, a hint of threat in her voice despite the plea.

“Of course he’s not going to tell anyone,” Pepper says easily. “He would never do that. This is your _super exciting_ news to share.”

Tony just shrugs. “I’m not a monster.” Then he looks back over at Tessa with a mysterious twinkle in his eye and he winks as he says, “But once they know, I’m telling the whole world that I knew first.”

“You wouldn’t be Tony Stark if you didn’t,” she says, reciprocating with a wink of her own.

Bucky clears his throat nervously and places a gentle hand on Tessa’s shoulder. “Actually,” he mutters softly, “Steve knows.”

“Sorry, what?” she asks, craning her neck tightly. “How would Steve know?”

He swallows hard and braces himself for the ire just beginning to seep from her voice… and from her glare. “I told him,” he breathes out guiltily, grimacing at the sound of Tony’s riotous laugh.

“Ooo,” he huffs. “Sounds like someone’s in _trouble_.”

“No,” Tessa says quickly, spinning on him with wide eyes. “No, he’s not in trouble.” She tosses Bucky a glance over her shoulder as she says with a certain cloying quality, “How could I be angry at the most _understanding_ man in the world?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, not at all surprised by this tactic. “Okay,” he says. “What exactly am I so understanding about this time?”

She turns back to Tony. “I’m coming back work.” He spouts a quick, sardonic laugh. “I am,” she protests. “I’m cleared for PT, which means I’m _expected_ to move. And…”

He holds up a single pointed finger, the mannerism deafening in its declaration. “If… _if_ … I decide that you should be allowed back at work – and I’m not at all convinced that you should – there will be rules.” Tessa nods eagerly as she tries to bite back a smile. “You start at part time. I reserve the right to kick your ass to the curb anytime I feel like you need a break.”

“Absolutely,” she agrees, nodding excitedly. “Start slow… got it.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Somehow I doubt that you do.”

“Everything will still need to be cleared through HR,” Pepper points out. “But if you are good to return, it’s actually perfect timing. Dr. Vargas is planning to present his proposal to the board next Monday. It’ll be the first from someone on your team.”

Tessa’s face falls. “What proposal?”

Tony waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Just an idea he came up with… you know, a proposal.”

“Yes, Tony,” she intones blithely. “I know what a _proposal_ is. I’m just wondering how someone on my team managed to get one in front of the board without my knowing about it.” She narrows her eyes at him, face suddenly stern. “Just how out of the loop have you been keeping me?”

He stares at her long and hard, seemingly thinking his way through an answer. But instead of supplying any sort of real response, he claps her on the shoulder, lets out a short, tight chuckle, and declares, “It’s good to have you back, kid.”


	3. Amazing

It’s such a strange feeling… getting put back together. Especially when, for the longest time, she hadn’t even realized she’d been coming apart.

When she called the Professor a few days back and told him she’d made a decision, told him she was ready to have him take down the wall in her mind and piece her past back together, she did so with a sort of nervous excitement. It was time. They were getting ready to start a new year. She was about to return to work and delve into a new job. She and James were going to embark on a new chapter of their lives together. Everything was new and exciting, and even this most terrifying of ventures seemed to portend only good things.

But now that she’s here – leaning back into the stiff cushions of the sofa in the Professor’s study, listening idly to his instructions as her gaze drifts off towards nothing – all of the excitement of the previous days has drained from her veins, leaving nothing but a thick dread in its place.

She feels as lost and confused and frightened as she had a few months ago… when nightmares plagued her as she slept and an odd foreboding accentuated by airy foreign voices filled her waking hours. That same deep chill that burned through her bones and settled into eerily frozen fingertips had returned the moment she entered the mansion. Even the roaring, crackling fire that burns in the fireplace near her feet isn’t enough to chase out this cold.

“It might be better if you lie down,” Professor Xavier says, his words pulling her attention back to him. She looks over to see him smile lightly at her. “This may get… uncomfortable.”

“It’s already uncomfortable,” she snipes.

He offers a small chuckle as he brings himself over to the arm of the couch, where he sets and plumps a single, fluffy looking pillow. “Come now. Try and relax,” he says, patting the pillow. She lets out a long sigh and nervously shifts around before laying back onto the sofa and letting her head sink into the surprisingly comfortable pillow. “Better?”

She gazes up at him, a fearful darkness in her eyes. “Please be careful,” she says, barely a whisper.

There’s a tug in his chest as he looks down at her, seeing not the accomplished, grown woman she is, but instead the frightened, anxious child she was when he first welcomed her into his life. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he tells her, repeating the same words he’d spoken all those years ago. “You’re safe here.”

“Just…” Her face twists into an almost panicked grimace and her breath catches. “I don’t know if I’m ready…”

He smiles down at her, the same soothing, reassuring smile that he’s shared with her for as long as she can remember. And then it happens – _Remember_. The word reverberates through her, starting as a sort of echo from the depths. _Remember_. She jolts a bit as the sound ricochets through her ears.

Xavier hears it as well, an echo ringing through her subconscious and into his waiting, open mind. “It’s _your_ voice,” he tells her, tone soft and steady. “It only feels alien because you’re pushing against it so hard. You must stop resisting.”

“I… I can’t,” she says, her voice cracking at the end.

He gently places his fingers at her temples. “Close your eyes, my dear.” She hesitates, gaze remaining trained on his face. He sends something through her then, a slow-moving current of… _calm_. It feels like a warm breeze blowing in from across the ocean, moving through her… within her, gently warming her from the inside out. “Close your eyes, Anna,” he nearly whispers.

And her lids fall shut.

000

“How long is this supposed to take?” Bucky asks, an impatient scowl painted on his face. He paces back and forth the length of the large kitchen, eyes focused on nothing but the ground beneath his feet as he thinks only of the woman in the other room.

Bobby steps in front of him, stilling his pace, and with a smile, he hands him a Coke. “Sorry there’s nothing stronger. We can’t really keep alcohol at a school.”

“Speak for yourself,” Logan mutters as he saunters into the room. All eyes turn to watch him with curiosity as he traipses in only to cross in front of the trio and walk right out the back door.

Bucky accepts the drink and then turns to face Kitty as she begins to speak. “There isn’t really a timetable with this,” she tells him. “It takes as long as it takes.”

Bucky glares at her, this slight, somber-looking woman who greeted them at the door not more than an hour ago with a hesitant smile and a nervous sort of energy. She seems kind and eager to assist, but still he can’t help but wonder… “Is there a class here on talking out your ass? Because I’m starting to feel like you all do it.”

“Ha!” Bobby claps him on the back and gives him a slight shove towards one of the stools at the counter. “You’ve noticed that?”

He shoots him a startled look before dropping into the seat, his shoulders drooping dramatically. The couple settles in on either side of him, Kitty reaching out and laying a comforting hand on his forearm. “She’ll be fine,” she tells him. “The Professor knows what he’s doing.”

He looks up at the petite brunette and frowns. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice sounding almost despondent. “Do _you_ know what he’s doing?”

She gives a small nod, a slight, knowing smile playing on her features. “I was curious about his plans. And I thought that maybe I could help… somehow. So, yes. We’ve discussed it.” She twists around on her stool to face him and gives him a serious look. It’s the same expression she uses when lecturing her students, and her voice takes on a similar authority when she says, “His mutation allows him to go into people’s minds. Beyond just basic telepathy, Professor Xavier can form a mental link with someone, in this case, Nova. And he can manipulate and alter her mind.”

Bobby _tsk_ s from the other side of Bucky. “We’re not supposed to call her that,” he says blandly, taking a drink of his soda.

Bucky looks back to Kitty. “That’s what he did before, right? He altered her mind? Made her forget?”

A thoughtful, almost pitiful look, washes over her face. “He built a psychic block – a mental wall. And he separated her consciousness into two pieces. One – the part that caused her pain… certain memories and abilities that she couldn’t control – that piece was placed on the _other_ side of the wall, where the rest of her consciousness could no longer access it. She never actually _forgot_ anything, though. It’s just all been hidden away.”

“And now he’s going in and… unhiding it?”

She nods again. “Basically. But of course, revealing all of those long-hidden truths all at once would be… well, a lot to handle. Too much, really. So what he’s doing now, today, is going in and pulling just _some_ of those memories out for her. Then he’ll work to weave them back into her consciousness.”

“Weave them back in?” he asks, brows knitting in confusion.

“Instead of just _revealing_ things to her and letting her cope and process it all on her own, he’ll build the memories back into her mind, piecing things together as he goes. That’s part of the reason why this can take so long. It’s a delicate, painstaking process. But – ”

She’s cut off by the sound of the back door slamming, Logan barreling back into the kitchen with several beers in hand. He walks over to the breakfast bar where they’re seated, deposits one in front of Bucky as he shoves the unopened Coke over to Bobby, and then tosses the rest – save one for himself – into the fridge.

“ _But_ ,” Kitty continues, trying to ignore the interruption, “It’ll be easier for her to adapt if he does it this way. Less of a shock to her system. Not that it won’t still be a _shock_ … that can’t really be helped.”

“Where did you get those?” Bobby asks, indicating the beer in Logan’s hand.

“Garage,” he mutters, staring daggers at the stranger in their midst. “So what’s your story, soldier boy?”

Bucky looks up at him with a sort of disgusted scowl. “My story?”

“Why don’t I get one?” Bobby goes on, disregarding the palpable tension between the men.

Logan turns to him with narrowed eyes. “Because you’re a kid,” he snaps before looking back at Bucky.

Bobby’s eyes widen, his face contorting into a petulant glower. “I’m 30!”

He shrugs. “Still a kid to me.”

Bucky glares at the man before him, his eyes narrowing as well as he studies his tense face, his troubled demeanor. “Tessa said you’re older than you look,” he starts, suspicion lacing his tone.

Without missing a beat, he says, “Could say the same about you.”

His eyebrows shoot up for a fraction of a second before he settles back into a stoic expression. “Sounds like you already know my story,” he mutters, popping the top to the beer in front of him and taking a good long swig.

Logan moves closer, leaning his hip onto the counter opposite the others. “You’re some kind of war hero, right? Or you were…”

“Really?” Bobby asks, shifting in his seat. “Afghanistan?”

Bucky shakes his head, never breaking fierce eye contact with Logan. “Western front.”

“What?” he questions, forehead wrinkling in absolute confusion.

Kitty leans forward to look over at her husband. “Babe,” she says, voice more than a little condescending. “He’s Bucky Barnes. He fought with Captain America in World War II.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink it, but once they do – “What?” – he starts at the revelation. He jolts upright. “What?” he asks again, eyes bouncing around to everyone in the room, desperately seeking clarification.

Logan gives him a pitiful look, shaking his head sadly. “Kid, you couldn’t be more clueless if you tried.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know…” He turns his shocked gaze on his wife. “How do _you_ know…?”

She shrugs. “I teach history. His face is in the textbook.”

Bucky throws her a sidelong glance. “That could probably use a rewrite.”

“You mean because your story ends with you falling from a train to your death?” she asks. Then, “Yeah, an update’s probably in order.”

Bobby shakes his head. “I’m _so_ lost.”

“He’s an experiment,” Logan supplies from across the counter. “Some Nazis screwed around with his…” he waves a hand absently through the air, “something… and turned him into a… I don’t know, bub. What do they call you?” he directs at Bucky.

His eyes go wide. “What do they call me?”

“Yeah, you know… we’re mutant freaks. Natural disasters.”

“The next step in human evolution,” Kitty interjects with a pretentious lilt.

“Sure, whatever,” he says flippantly. Then, looking back to Bucky, “So what are _you_?”

He furrows his brow in thought, his jaw ticking in place as he grinds it with the effort required to keep civil. “Well… I guess what I got was a lot like the super soldier serum.”

“So you’re a _super_ soldier,” he ends definitively, taking another pull from his beer as he emits an annoyed eye roll.

“But…” Bobby cocks his head at him, confusion still playing on his features. “But, how did you not die? And how are you… here? Did you get frozen in ice too?”

His mouth falls open and then quickly slams shut. These are the times that he’s grateful that the _whole_ story of his life hasn’t made it into the public eye. Steve being found in the ice was international news. Everyone knows about _that_ super soldier… what happened to him, how it happened… hell paparazzi still follow him whenever he’s in the city. But all that people know about Bucky – people who didn’t bother to read the thousands upon thousands of heavily redacted SHIELD and Hydra files released by the Widow, anyway – is that he was kept prisoner for decades and cryogenically preserved. The rest – his _ties_ to the Winter Soldier – hadn’t quite become common knowledge. Yet.

“Sort of,” he settles on, not really lying. He _had_ been frozen… time and time again. He ducks his head and clears his throat. “I was a POW… kept by the Russians.”

Logan gives a slow nod, the hard glare telling him without a doubt that _he_ knows more about his story than he’s letting on.

“What about you?” Bucky counters, straightening up and returning the imposing man’s piercing glare with one of his own. “What’s _your_ story?”

Bobby scoffs. “How long do you have? His story’ll take all day, and then some.”

Logan slowly flicks his eyes over to Bobby then back to Bucky. “I can heal. So I don’t die. Haven’t yet, anyway. I’m old as dirt. Older. Seen more of war than you, kid. Probably’ll see a lot more yet.”

Bobby nods slowly, waiting a long moment before conceding, “Okay, that was… succinct.”

“Romanov called you _Wolverine_ ,” Bucky mentions, an obvious question buried in the statement.

He nods. “They called me an animal,” he grunts out. Then dropping his gaze for a fraction of a moment, “They were right.”

Bucky thinks on that for a bit, shakes his head slowly when he feels a sort of deep-seated empathy rise in his chest. “She also said you were a hell of a tracker,” he mentions, pushing curiosity to the forefront of his mind in place of the dark truth that Logan’s words had dredged up.

It’s Bobby who responds, annoyance ringing through as he says, under his breath, “Always managed to find us every time we snuck away.”

Logan raises his eyebrows as he looks at the _kid_ , a small smile perking his lips. “Maybe you were just shit at running away.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But we couldn’t _all_ have been. You followed Rogue back to Canada, found us,” he says, indicating Kitty, “when we went up to Niagara – and we were _really_ careful then.”

He scoffs. “You were idiot teenagers who left a trail a shih tzu could’ve followed.”

“Took him two days to find Nova, though,” Kitty says, teasing smile rolling over her face. “After John left…”

Logan releases a long, labored sigh. “I knew exactly where she was. But she needed to put an end to that shitshow on her own, so I gave her a day to sort herself out.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He wants to know more about this _shitshow_. He wants to know who John is. He wants to know why Tessa ran away and where she ran off to. Most of all, he wants to know just who this girl that they keep talking about really was.

“You call her Nova,” he mutters slowly. “That’s short for _Supernova_?” Kitty nods. He forces his face to relax just the slightest bit, not wanting to give the impression – at least not to Kitty and Bobby, both of whom had been nothing by kind and welcoming to him – that he was bitter or angry about them refusing to call her Tessa. “You all have names like that?” He takes a quick drink of his beer and tips the bottle in Logan’s direction. “ _Wolverine_ ,” he intones with an almost mocking lilt.

Kitty releases a small laugh and points over at Bobby. “Iceman,” she declares, raising her brows encouragingly as her husband touches the Coke in front of him, immediately turning the liquid into ice so cold that the glass bottle surrounding it cracks.

Bucky watches the trick, stares long and hard at the brown frozen _drink_ before skirting his eyes up to meet Bobby’s expectant gaze. “You can freeze… anything?” he asks, working to mask his unease.

“Anything,” he replies with a self-assured wink.

“And I’m Shadowcat,” Kitty declares, bringing Bucky’s attention back to her.

“Shadowcat,” he mutters slowly, a slight taunt to his tone.

“Go ahead, babe,” Bobby says with a smirk. “Show him what you can do.”

She gently lays her hand atop Bucky’s wrist as he holds up his beer bottle, and she waits for his gaze to follow the movement. Then, once his eyes are trained on the touch, she phases and lets her hand drop, falling through Bucky’s arm and reforming on the countertop below.

He pulls away so swiftly, jerking from her non-existent grip, that he inadvertently throws a good amount of beer back onto himself. He almost trips over the stool beneath him when he jumps up, taking a moment to right it as he mutters, fear and wonder both evident in his tone, “ _Jesus_.”

“Sorry,” she mutters, barely audible above Bobby’s laughter. “I probably should’ve warned you.”

His eyes are wide and awestruck as he looks back over at her. “How did you… what did you…”

“It’s called phasing,” she explains. “I can move through the quantum spaces between atoms.”

“She can walk through walls,” Logan corrects dryly. “And… people.”

Bucky slowly moves back to the bar and lowers himself down onto the stool again, his eyes remaining trained on the pixie-like thing in front of him. “That’s… amazing,” he utters.

Kitty ducks her head bashfully, a bit of a blush creeping up her pale neck. “Well… everyone here can do something pretty… amazing.” She brings her eyes back up to meet his and says with a sort of resoluteness, “Nova most of all.”

Logan sneers as he finishes off his beer. “Yeah, well,” he shoots out. “I remember the two of you in training runs. You’d just phase in and out and nothing she could do would _touch_ you. She couldn’t drain you… No energy blasts would hit you. It’s like you were – what’s the word? – _impervious_ ,” he finishes with a contemptuous scowl. “Really pissed her off.”

“She snuck up on me once,” she starts, sad frown taking over her face. “After chemistry one day. She came up behind me and jolted me… threw a shockwave straight through me. I… _vibrated_ for days. And I couldn’t phase for weeks.”

Logan lets loose with a tight laugh. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Man,” he says, shaking his head, “she really hated you.”

“I know,” she laments thoughtfully, frown deepening for a moment before, “Still… it’ll be good to have her back on our side.”

Bucky’s head pivots just a bit as he takes in her words. “What do you mean, _back on your side_?”

Her eyes widen suddenly, mouth hanging agape as she thinks about how to respond. “I…” is all she can get out before Bobby cuts her off.

“Nothing,” he states plainly, his expression uncharacteristically grim. “She just means _back_ in general. It’s been a long time since the team’s been, well… a team.”

Bucky frowns deeply and prepares to respond – to say that she’s already on a team, thank you very much – but he’s interrupted by the familiar, heavy clunk and clink of crutches. Silence falls amid the group the moment Tessa hobbles laboriously into the kitchen.

Bobby wrinkles his nose, grin reappearing as he asks, “What are you wearing?” His eyes – along with everyone else’s – trail down her body to take in the light gray sweats. Running down the side of her leg and emblazoned on her chest are the words _Xavier Institute_. “Are those the kids’ gym clothes?”

Logan raises a brow as he turns to face her, still leaning heavily on the counter. “You going for a run?”

Her expression remains stony, no hint of amusement on her exhausted face. “I puked on myself,” she admits plainly.

She connects weary eyes with Bucky, whose face quickly transforms into a concerned frown. But before he can utter a word, Kitty straightens up and, rising from her seat, she says, with a bit too much authority, “That can happen. Mindwork isn’t an easy thing.”

Tessa scowls at the slight woman, narrowing her eyes. “Mindwork?” she asks with more than a hint of mockery.

Her eyes are soft as she explains, “The mind-body connection is a powerful one. That’s all I’m saying. These sessions might have a physical effect.” Tessa rolls her eyes dramatically, pulling a small huff from Kitty. She takes a few steps forward, her voice dropping into a careful, soothing tone. “How do you feel… otherwise?”

She leans onto the right crutch and lifts her left leg a bit off the floor, stretches out her ankle to try and dissipate some of the lingering ache. Then, looking up at Kitty with a completely straight face, she announces sarcastically, “I feel like I’m walking on fucking sunshine,” ending with an almost menacing wide-eyed glare.

Bobby chokes on a laugh as Kitty takes the smallest of steps backward, dropping her head as she says, “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Yeah, well, that didn’t work when you two were kids,” Logan breathes out, “don’t see why it would work now.”

Again, Tessa releases a long eye roll before turning to Bucky, who seems to just be taking in the bizarre dynamic unfolding in front of him. “Can we go?” she asks him, a deep, pathetic note to her voice.

“Yeah,” he nods simply. “Whenever you want.”

“I want,” she replies, steadying herself to turn and leave.

Bobby shoots upright and quickly issues out, “But you’re coming back, right?” a good amount of trepidation sounding in his otherwise enthusiastic voice. “I mean… you’re not done… right?”

Kitty lets out a small scoff. “If the Professor gave it all back to her at once her head would explode.” She shrugs. “Sort of. This thing takes time. She’ll have to come back.”

Logan straightens himself up and turns to dig out another drink from the fridge. “Besides, we’re not mailing her clothes back to her. If she wants them, she’s gotta come and get ‘em.”

Bobby raises an amused brow. “I don’t know,” he singsongs. “I mean, she _could_ just give us her address. Then we could mail them… or maybe just swing by sometime.”

Bucky shakes his head dismissively as he moves to Tessa’s side. “Perk of living in the Avengers compound… people aren’t allowed to just _swing by_.” The room goes silent, four sets of wide eyes trained on him, including Tessa’s, which show not only shock, but a hint of rage. “What?” he asks, utterly lost.

“I’m sorry,” Bobby starts. “Did you say that you live at the Avengers compound?” Bucky nods. “ _The_ Avengers compound? With… the Avengers?” He nods again. “Earth’s mightiest heroes?”

Logan snorts an indignant laugh, but says nothing.

Bucky’s eyes flick back and forth between everyone for a moment more before… “Oh,” he breathes out, turning to Tessa. “You really haven’t told them _anything_ , huh?” She shrugs stiffly, her lips pressed tightly together into a firm, defiant line.

Bobby’s face shines with something akin to childlike wonder as he looks to Tessa. “Are you an Avenger?”

“No,” she huffs at the exact same time that Bucky nods and says, “Yes.” They share a quick look, unreadable to the rest of the group. “No,” she goes on, turning to Bobby. “I’m just their doctor.”

“ _Just_ their doctor?” he replies with a wide smile. “So you _just_ have all of their medical records?”

She narrows her eyes at him teasingly. “Why? You want to know how much _iron_ Iron Man has in his blood?”

He nods excitedly. “Yes! Yeah, I do!”

“How are you so surprised by this?” Logan asks. “Captain America was here,” he says, a bitter sardonic lilt to his voice. “Didn’t you hear?”

“Oh, I heard. The kids _still_ haven’t shut up about it.” He turns back to Tessa. “But I just thought he was your friend… that you met him through Stark or something. I didn’t know you _worked_ with him.”

Logan angrily furrows his brows. “I just worked with him last week. You didn’t seem so impressed then.”

He offers a quick _psh_. “You covered for him. You didn’t work _with_ him. And besides, it was all a favor for _her_. Which makes sense now that I know you’re an Avenger.”

She shakes her head adamantly. “I’m not.” Then she leans into Bucky, bumping him playfully with her shoulder. “James is, though.”

“Barely,” he mutters.

“You’re prepping the new support teams now. You train with the rest of the team everyday,” she cites, intending to continue but getting cut off by a decisive statement.

“The last mission I went on almost got me killed.”

She shrugs. “Me too. But at least you’re still on the roster.”

He gazes down at her with a sly grin. “So are you, doll. You just got benched for a while.”

She releases a tired breath and twists around to head out the door. “Whatever,” she says with a huff. “I need to go home.”

Kitty calls out, “I’m assuming the Professor said to take a week in between to process?” Tessa stops cold, Bucky nearly running into her as he follows her out. She turns slowly and shoots Kitty a dirty look, which is received with an almost bashful smile. “So… I guess we’ll all see you next week.”

“Let’s hope not,” she deadpans.

Kitty’s face falls, an angry scowl taking over. “Why do you hate me so much?”

She shrugs and turns to leave once more. “I’m sure I’ll remember at some point,” she tosses over her shoulder as they head out the door.

Bobby flops his elbows down onto the counter, staring ahead at the empty space his friend just occupied. He shakes his head slowly. “Nova’s an Avenger,” he mutters absently. Then, turning to Logan, he asks, “Do you think she can get me an interview?”


	4. Don't Worry About Me

Tessa’s mind had been reeling for days.

She felt no different at all after her first session with the Professor on Saturday. At least… not at first. When they left the school that afternoon, all she felt was sick. Her head pounded well into the night, and her stomach – after emptying into her lap in Xavier’s study the moment she pulled out of his hold – had been clenched into one giant, painful knot.

Part of her thought she was dying – her body was clearly revolting against whatever sort of deed the Professor had done. But eventually – after hours of tossing and turning and bemoaning her plight – she fell into a deep and oddly dreamless sleep. And when she woke the next morning, her headache had all but disappeared. What was left in its wake, however, was a terribly distracting, horribly distressing, incredibly annoying feeling of intense déjà vu that lurked menacingly at the forefront of her mind.

She would’ve preferred a migraine.

“Hey.” Bucky’s deep voice sounds in her periphery, startling her out of yet another dark reverie. She looks up as he slowly approaches, cocking his head in curiosity. “What are you doing?” he asks, a hint of concern to his voice as he drops down onto the couch beside her.

“Watching The Bachelor,” she sighs out, returning her gaze to the TV. As soon as her eyes hit the screen she realizes that she has no idea what’s happening on the show, apparently having been distracted for longer than she realized.

He sidles up next to her, throwing his arm over the back of the sofa. “I see that.”

“What do you think about submitting Steve for this?” she asks, leaning back into him.

“You want to put Steve on national television and surround him with beautiful women?” She nods before dropping her head onto his shoulder. He gently kisses her hair. “That would definitely be entertaining.”

She lets out a long sigh. “He’d probably never go for it. No fun, that one.”

A soft chuckle reverberates through his body and into hers. But she feels him stiffen beside her not long after, his light energy clouding with concern. “I thought you’d be getting ready,” he issues out in a deep, even tone.

She curls further into him and tries to focus on the TV as she casually says, “Changed my mind. I’d rather stay home.”

Bucky shifts back and looks down at her with a frown. “You sure? Thought you loved Stark parties.”

She shrugs again. It’s true, she does love Tony’s parties. And this will be among the biggest and the best. It is New Year’s after all. But… “I don’t feel like it.”

“You don’t feel well?” he asks seriously, brow furrowed as he brings his left hand up to her face and waits for her to curl into the cool metal. “Does your head still hurt?”

She tugs away quickly, rolling her eyes. “No. It’s not that,” she says, insisting for the umpteenth time that she – _physically_ – feels fine now. “I just… don’t feel like getting dressed up.” She turns to him and wiggles her eyebrows as she says, “We can eat Chinese food on the couch and watch movies.”

He lets out another short chuckle and watches as the barely there smile fades from her lips. “We could. I’m up for whatever you want to do.” She gives him a solemn nod before turning back to the TV and curling up into his chest. “You seem kind of down,” he mutters into her hair as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

“No,” she breathes out.

“No?” he asks, pulling away just enough to look down and see her face. “It’s New Year’s Eve and you’re sitting in the dark watching reruns of The Bachelor.”

She shrugs and sinks further down, twisting around to turn into him and wrap her arms around his middle. She settles her head near his ribcage and mumbles into his shirt, “No,” followed by a long sigh and an utterly unconvincing, “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” he intones, the deep utterance resonating through his core and into Tessa’s ear as she presses further into his middle. “I wish you’d talk to me,” he mutters softly, running his fingers through her hair.

She squeezes him tighter and murmurs into him, “Don’t want to.”

He slides down the couch slowly, maneuvering himself next to her, partially beneath her. She refuses to loosen her hold, and he responds by wrapping himself tightly around her as well. Now that they’re laying side by side, he’s able to snuggle into her neck, her hair. “What if I ask _really_ nice?” he whispers into her ear, the tickle of his breath eliciting a small giggle.

He nips at her earlobe before starting in on her neck, lazily pecking down towards her shoulder. He’s not entirely sure what his endgame is here. He does want her to talk to him, and slowly seducing her on the couch will likely _not_ end in any sort of cathartic conversation. But he’s also desperate for her to just… smile. Which is why his heart sinks so low when she not only releases a miserable sounding sigh, but also utters the dismissive words, “Nothing to talk about.”

He stops his ministrations and sucks in a deep breath. “Really?” he asks, his voice heady with both disbelief and annoyance.

She rolls on top of him and raises herself up onto her forearms, earning an uncomfortable _oomph_ from the super soldier as she inadvertently digs her elbows into his ribcage. “There really isn’t,” she tells him with absolute sincerity.

He looks into her eyes and sees a dark sort of longing lingering there, a building storm of grief and confusion and regret. It reminds him of the disquiet he used to see in his own reflection as he stood in front of the mirror and struggled to recognize the man staring back at him, struggled to make sense out of the many discordant thoughts and emotions roiling through his head. “Baby,” he mutters vaguely, reaching up to sweep a thick curl behind her ear.

“Maybe I’m… sad,” she says plainly before laying her head back onto his chest. She closes her eyes and listens to the steady, slow beat of his heart as he winds his fingers gently through her hair.

He waits for her to say more. “Why?” he asks softly when no more words come.

She shrugs into him and he feels her hot breath seep through his shirt when she mutters, “I lost my sister.”

His hand stills, fingers no longer twining. She hadn’t spoken about the session with Xavier yet, not really anyway. And he hadn’t pushed. But he most definitely had been wondering just how far they got in rebuilding her psyche. And reintegrating her memories. “That’s what happened?”

Another shrug. She reaches up with her right hand and works her fingers beneath the collar of his shirt so she can gently trace along the seam of his metal arm. He hates when she touches him there. Hates when her soft, supple, pristine flesh comes into contact with the only scars on his body that refuse to heal. But he doesn’t stop her from doing it now, not when she so obviously _needs_ to just touch him.

“I know I’m her,” she mutters softly, sadly. “I guess I knew before, but…” Her left arm snakes beneath his back, wrapping desperately around him. She clings to him as she speaks, tone limp and hesitant. “Now I _know._ Only… I still remember her as my sister too.” She sniffles wetly and he pulls his hand from her hair, drops it to her back to rub soft, soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “It’s just sort of a mess,” she bitterly laughs into him, his heart breaking at the melancholic sound.

“They said it would take time, right?” he tries, working to make his voice lighter.

She nods into his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He feels a small bit of warm wetness bleed through his shirt as she blinks out a few stray tears. “I know,” she mumbles so quietly, he barely hears.

She nestles further into him, content to just listen to his heartbeat among the low din of voices from the television. The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that her mind isn’t _sort of_ _a mess_. It’s an utter, absolute, out-and-out clusterfuck.

She’s recollecting things that she had long ago forgotten. Things that she had always associated with her sister. Things that she would’ve argued had been experienced by Anna, certainly not by her – _Tessa_ , a completely different person. But she knows now that these memories are actually her own. She _knows_ it. Yet it _feels_ like she’s somehow stumbled into her twin’s memories… the twin for whom she still mourns.

It’s sad, and confusing, and frightening, and… just all over fucked up. And the whole process had only just begun.

The longer she lays atop him in silence, the tighter she clings to him, the more concerned Bucky becomes. And Tessa _feels_ that too. She pulls in a deep breath, cringing at the energy being put out by the man in her arms.

She knows he’s desperate for her to be better, to be whole… to just _be_. And there is nothing she wants more in this world than to give him that comfort and assurance. “I really am okay,” she says suddenly, steeling her voice. “I know you’re worried, but…” she shifts atop him, brings her head upright with her chin on his chest so she can look him in the eye. “Don’t worry,” she tells him with a small smile.

He offers a tight nod as he looks into her deep green eyes, so filled with love and concern for him. Doesn’t she realize that it kills him when she does that – when she tries to tamp down her own pain and hide it all away for his sake? Doesn’t she realize that he doesn’t need nor want to be comforted? What he needs is to be able to comfort _her_ , to help her, to distract her, to simply make her smile once again.

A bright gleam gathers in his eye as he gazes up at her. “When do you want to get married?” he asks, a coy grin slowly blossoming across his face.

Her eyes light with laughter and she releases a thunderous, “Ha!”

A deep, true smile springs up despite his attempt to show off a teasing frown. “What? I want to know.”

“Well,” she sighs out, a soft giggle following just after. She loosens her desperate hold on him just a bit as she says, “I need to be able to dance.”

He nods. “Yep. Definitely need to dance.” His brows knit together for a quick moment as he thinks about how long it’ll be before her leg is healed to the point of cutting a rug. “Summer?” he offers.

She snorts. “Too sweaty.”

“September,” he tries, not really wanting to put it off even that long.

“Sure,” she counters, returning her head to his chest with an airy sigh. “Why not?”

“ _Why not_ ,” he repeats, blowing out a deep breath. “Just how I always hoped a woman would respond when I asked her to marry me.”

Tessa releases another delightful giggle, hiding her face in Bucky’s shirt before popping back up with a rather serious seeming smirk. “It doesn’t work with me, you know.” He furrows his brow in confusion. “Changing the subject to something happy won’t make me believe you’re not still a giant ball of worry.” She raises a single, chiding eyebrow at him. “I can _feel_ you brooding.”

He pets down her hair as he hums out, “Just because you tell me to stop doing something, doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.”

She pulls herself further up him, sliding along his body until she can drop her face into the crook of his neck. Slowly, she begins to suck at the flesh there, her tongue gliding along his collarbone. She cocks her head up a bit and whispers in his ear, “What if I ask nicely?”

He outright laughs, big and breathy. “I’ll do my best,” he tells her.

She hoists herself up to loom just above him. “You better,” she says before dropping her lips down to meet his.

The kiss is rich and deep, and just exactly what both of them need to feel grounded and connected to each other. But it’s cut short – too damn short – by a harsh rapping at their door. They both startle, Tessa jolting so hard that she nearly rolls off Bucky’s chest. He tightens his arms around her and calls out, “What?!”

Friday is the one who responds, her demure voice stating, “Agent Romanov is at your door.”

“Of course she is,” he mutters, more than a hint of annoyance in his tone. He sits upright – or as close to it as he can get – pulling Tessa with him. “Let her in.”

“Noooo,” she whines, curling around him and burying her face in his neck. “She’s gonna make me get dressed.”

“You’re damn right I am,” the ruby-clad redhead says as she waltzes into the apartment. She looms before them, her red sequined gown sparkling in the light thrown by the TV, the tight bodice looking even more form fitting once she drops her hands to her hips in a huff. “What am I looking at here?”

“That feels like a question you don’t actually want answered,” Bucky smarts as he unfurls his fiancée’s arms from around his neck and rises from the couch.

Nat shoots him an irritated glare. “I mean, why aren’t you ready for the party?”

Tessa slumps to the side, leaning pathetically over the arm of the couch, and pouts. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Lies,” Natasha bites out. “Have you even showered?”

“I don’t do that anymore,” she deadpans, earning her a deep eyeroll from the redhead.

Bucky grabs a jacket and ducks around Natasha. “You two have fun,” he states, as he makes for the door.

Tessa bolts upright. “Wait! Where are you going?”

He gives her an incredulous look. “After the mess you made last time you went digging through that closet, I know better than to stick around here.”

“But…” she sputters. “Movies and Chinese food. We were going to skip the party, remember?”

He watches her intently for a long moment, assessing her level of sincerity. “Doll,” he breathes out, “We only do this once a year. You’re gonna regret it if we don’t go.”

Natasha scoffs. “Once a year?”

He turns to her with utter candor. “I agreed to _one_ Stark party a year.”

“Well then maybe you should skip out on this one, because there’s no way Tony’s not going to throw you a huge engagement party,” she says with a raised brow and a crooked grin.

Bucky’s face falls, his expression positively stricken. “Bullshit,” he challenges. Then, looking past her and over at Tessa, “That’s not true, is it?”

She shrugs, reaching out to grab her crutches. “He might hate you. But he loves me,” she says, hoisting herself up off the couch. “And he loves parties even more.”

He stands stark still in the middle of the living room, looking utterly lost until Natasha pats him swiftly on the shoulder. “Go borrow something of Steve’s and meet us down there. At least this time it isn’t black tie only.” She turns to Tessa, who’s still pouting as she leans heavily on her crutches. “Hopefully he can clean up enough to look halfway decent next to you.”

She glances down at her pajama-clad body. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Nat gives Bucky a final shove to pull him out his stupor and then sweeps past both of them on her way to their bedroom. “I think tonight is a Prada kind of night!” she announces.

“It won’t fit,” Tessa calls out after her as she starts down the hall. She turns quickly to throw Bucky a coy glare before he heads out the door. “One hour, max,” she tells him. “Then I want to be back on that couch.”

He smiles wide, a playful twinkle in his eye. “See, now this time I might actually do what you tell me.”

000

Bucky had hoped that once they got to the party, Tessa would lighten up… laugh and talk and mingle and become her normal, effervescent, party self. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen.

Granted he had restricted her social lubricant, sternly reminding her that the doctor had agreed she should cool it on her alcohol consumption. But other than throwing him an initial dirty look, she didn’t really seem to care about the drink limit, her first – and final – martini of the night still sitting largely untouched on the bar in front of her.

As if that’s not odd enough, she had parked it at the bar the minute she found him and hasn’t veered from his side since. For the past hour, she hasn’t even attempted to mingle with friends and colleagues. She hasn’t cracked a single joke, nor even – if he’s not mistaken – offered up a single genuine, non-business-like smile. Not to anyone. Rather, she seems to be hiding in sullen silence, pressed to him, clinging to him much as she had at home, her fingers wrapped tightly around his metal hand as it hangs loosely at his side.

But if anyone other than Bucky notices her peculiar mood, they choose not to comment on it, instead laughing and talking around her as though each and every one of them has not a care in the world.

Before sauntering off to find Wanda, Natasha tells the group about witnessing Bucky partaking in a tea party with Lila last week at the Bartons’. Steve teases Sam about his mysterious girlfriend who’s conveniently otherwise occupied tonight. And Bucky pokes fun at Steve for being the only man in the room who’s never kissed a girl at midnight on New Year’s. Though… “You weren’t on the USO tour,” the Captain retorts with a sly smile.

Sam snickers and, setting his nearly empty beer on the bar, notices for the first time that through all of the group’s good-natured ribbing, Tessa has remained uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. But it isn’t actually the look on _her_ face that captures his attention. It’s the almost pained way that Bucky watches her from the corner of his eye.

Sam’s smile fades just a bit as he nudges Tessa’s shoulder and looks down at her ring. “I thought _diamonds_ were supposed to be a girl’s best friend,” he says with a lilt.

She frowns lightly, dropping Bucky’s hand – finally – to absently twist the ring around her finger. “There are diamonds,” she says softly, gazing down at the bright halo of jewels surrounding the emerald. “And this is the only piece of jewelry I’ve ever worn for more than a day without losing.” She glances up at Sam with an amused glint in her eye. “If diamonds are my best friend, I must be a really shitty friend.”

Sam lets out a hearty chuckle and Bucky pulls his concerned gaze away from the woman at his side just long enough to look over at the Falcon and give him a small, appreciative nod. He shakes his head, crooked smile dancing on his lips as he connects eyes with Bucky. “You’re a lucky man,” he says, a genuine twinkle in his eye.

“I’ll drink to that,” Steve says, raising his beer in the air.

Tessa lets out a short scoff as the three men surrounding her down the rest of their drinks. “What are we drinking to?” she hears from behind, craning her neck to see Tony sidling up to the bar. He orders more drinks for everyone before forcing his way into the group, stepping right in between the toasted couple.

“Bucky and Tessa’s engagement,” Steve tells him with a grin.

Tony rolls his eyes and emits an annoyed _psh_. Then, pretentiously pouting, he states, “I don’t like it.”

Sam raises an accusatory eyebrow as he stares the man down. “That’s a dick thing to say,” he says, tone deep and chiding.

Tony lets out a huff. “You’re too young to tie yourself down,” he almost whines, turning his attention to Tessa. “Think of all the things you’ll miss out on.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, a deep, biting quality to his voice.

He rolls his eyes yet again, but keeps his gaze trained on Tessa. “You’ve never had a fling with a non-English-speaking dancer in Barcelona.”

Steve’s eyes widen as he reaches over to pluck a full beer off the bar. An amused smile creeps across his face as he states, “That’s… specific.”

“You still haven’t made your first million,” Tony goes on, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You always want to make your first million while you’re still single.”

“Really?” Sam asks. “Why’s that?”

He shifts his gaze to the man. “What’s the point of a prenup if you don’t even have a cool mill under your belt?” he replies with absolute authority.

Tessa’s eyebrows draw together into a confused scowl. “How much are you planning on paying me?”

He turns back to her, narrowing his eyes and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level. “Kid,” he says plainly, “you haven’t even had a threesome yet. C’mon.”

She connects with his eyes, cocking her head to the side as if to gauge his sincerity. “I’ve had a threesome, Tony,” she states, her tone a bit too blasé for the words that suddenly hit everyone’s ears.

Bucky’s response to her utterance is to choke and sputter on his beer. Sam lets out a giant, breathy guffaw. And Steve just crinkles his brow – as he pats his dying friend on the back – and looks at Tessa, concern lacing his features. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Tessa says nothing, her eyes skirting between him and a red-faced Bucky as she simply shakes her head _no_.

Tony leans closer to her, a devilish grin on his face. “I want details… _all_ of the details,” he whispers to her.

She merely rolls her eyes. “It was a long time ago. And it wasn’t that great.” Then, glancing back over at Bucky and seeing that he’s _mostly_ recovered from her admission, she says – in no uncertain terms – “I don’t need to do it again.”

He raises his brows high, a slight sparkle in his gaze. “Good to know,” he nods before letting out a deep sigh. “Can’t say I have much desire to try it again either.”

All eyes turn on him. “What?” Tony snorts, incredulity dripping from the word. He flings a single pointed finger back and forth between the couple. “You two… with who?”

Tessa shakes her head. “Not us two. This is news to me.” She leans forward on the barstool and rests her chin in her hand as she stares at Bucky. “You got something you want to share?”

He eyes her coyly. “I didn’t hear you give any details.”

“You really want me to?” she asks, a challenge to her voice.

Both Sam and Tony blurt out a resounding, “Yes,” earning them a disappointed glare from Steve and a threatening growl from Bucky.

Tony rolls his eyes and lets out a pained sigh as he looks at Bucky. “Some sort of wartime tryst?” he asks, an acrid quality to his voice.

“Not exactly.”

Steve shoots him an almost dirty look. “When? Who?”

With a crooked smile, he swivels toward his friend. “Debbie something,” he offers, brow furrowing as he fights to remember the young woman’s name. “It was a few months before I shipped out. She was at the dance hall with her roommate, and they invited me back to their place.”

“Wait,” Sam interrupts. “That kind of thing actually happens?”

He takes another drink of beer, scrunching his nose in disgust as he realizes that some of the beer he spit out a moment ago must’ve gone back into the bottle. “Happened to me,” he shrugs, leaning over to deposit the backwashed drink onto the bar.

Steve’s brows twist in confusion. “Debbie? Not Debra Cooper?”

Bucky snaps his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Cooper.” He shakes his head slowly as he thinks back on that night. “Fiery redhead,” he mutters absently. “Never trust them.”

Tessa scoffs and rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say a word. Like the rest, she’s more than curious about how this tale will unfold. But Bucky doesn’t say anything else, seemingly content to leave the story as is. Until Tony impatiently spits out, “Just tell us the damn story!”

His face lights up just the slightest bit upon hearing the man’s irritation. “I went back to their place,” he intones. “Had a…” he throws a quick glance over at Tessa, who raises her eyebrows expectantly, “a fun time. Then we hear the door open, and all hell breaks loose.” His eyes widen. “Turns out, they had another roommate… Debbie’s brother.”

“And he wasn’t too happy about you plowing his sister?” Sam asks, his smarmy tone pulling a disgusted snarl from Tessa.

Bucky releases a small, tentative chuckle. “No, actually, he was more upset about my _plowing_ his fiancée.”

“Oh,” Sam breathes out. “His sister and his fiancée? Oh _damn_.”

Steve frowns deeply, not finding the story nearly as amusing as the others. “How exactly did you survive that?” he asks, followed quickly by, “And how have you never told me about this?”

“I went out the window. Fire escape was broken, so I had a hell of a drop… twisted my ankle pretty bad.” He shrugs. “Guy kept yelling down after me, so I ran… on a bum ankle. Ran eight blocks. But I don’t think he bothered to actually chase me.” He turns to Steve and levels him with a serious stare as he takes in his friend’s disappointed glower. “And I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d look at me like you’re looking at me now.”

Tony shifts awkwardly across from them, his face pulled into a thoughtful expression. “But you told my dad,” he mutters softly. Bucky turns to look at him. “I know that story,” he says, a breathy, reminiscent air to his words. “I didn’t know it was you… just, one of his old friends. But… he told me that story.” He looks up and connects with Bucky’s curious gaze. “The guy broke your nose before you took off out the window,” he states with a wide, playful smile.

Bucky grins and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

The two men look at each other for a long moment, Tony sniggering under his breath as he shakes his head and says, “He laughed so hard. Every time he told that story.”

Steve frowns over at him. “How often did he tell it?”

Tony shrugs. “Whenever the subject of orgies came up, I guess.”

Sam’s eyes widen as he shakes his head sadly. “You guys must’ve had a hell of a father-son relationship.”

“ _Well_ ,” Tessa interrupts with a huff as she pulls herself up off the barstool and onto her crutches. “That was a fun stroll down memory lane.” She glances over at Bucky, widening her eyes in a commanding motion. “I think I’m ready to go home.”

Tony scoffs loudly beside her. “It’s not even nine o’clock!”

She doesn’t respond, merely readies herself to go. “Are you mad?” Bucky asks in a low voice as she tries to push past him. “Hey,” he says gently, reaching out and letting his fingers trail along her arm.

She turns back to him, her eyes bouncing between the other men – all of whom are watching with curiosity – before settling back on her fiancé. “No,” she tells him simply. Then, her expression fading into an almost devious smirk, she raises a brow and tells him that, “I’m afraid all this talk of threesomes will have you inviting Steve into our bed.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “Figured I should get you home and remind you that I’m enough.”

Bucky’s face twists into an amused sort of grimace as Tony questions, “Was your ménage-a-trois with two men? Because if so, I changed my mind. I want _no_ details.”

She shoots him a teasing wink. “I’ll never tell,” she says, slowly pulling away from the group.

As for Bucky, he shoots a quick look of apology to Steve – because, really, the man had been through enough just hearing the word threesome – and drops his hand to the small of Tessa’s back as he turns to follow her out.

The other men continue to loom around the bar in silence for a long, painfully awkward moment before each peels away on his own, fading into the surrounding crowd without so much as a glance in the other’s direction.


	5. Plans

What is it they say about making plans? We do it, God laughs? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Tessa had _planned_ on checking in at the lab at the compound this morning before heading into the city for her first official day back at work. Really… her first official day at work, period. Well, as the head of Stark Industries’ new Genetic Medical Research Division anyway. But that plan got thwarted when Bruce pulled her aside for an hour-long pow-wow about how he was tired of being a boss, tired of the bureaucracy, tired of Max’s bullshit, and desperate to hand everything back over to her.

“I can deal with keeping up with the staff’s checks and medical records,” he told her, his left eye twitching wildly as he spoke. “But the rest… I just _can’t_.”

By the time she talked him down and convinced him that they’d work something out once she got back from Seattle in a couple weeks, it was already nearly eleven.

Fine. No big deal. She still had enough time to stop into her office and take care of a few things before heading into the city. But of course, the first email she finds in her inbox once she begins taking care of those things is one from Maureen informing her that the board meeting today got moved from four to two.

Two o’clock. Shit.

“I’m barely gonna make it,” she grumbles into the phone as she struggles to change shirts in the back of the limo. One of the stipulations placed upon her return by Tony was that Happy was to take over as her personal… babysitter, it seemed. But that did mean she got her own chauffer for the next few weeks, so she couldn’t really argue.

Bucky scoffs on the other end of the line. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got plenty of time.” She lets out a little squeak and drops the cell as she peels off her tank top. “What are you doing?” he asks with a small laugh once she retrieves the phone and huffs into it.

“I didn’t have time to change,” she tells him, a bit out of breath. “I’m doing it now.”

“In the back of a car?”

“The windows are tinted. The divider’s up. And I’m keeping on my underwear,” she states hurriedly before turning the phone on speaker and setting it aside so she can maneuver into her sweater. She frowns down at it the moment it’s pulled around her. “I look like I got dressed in the dark.”

He sniggers on the other end. “As opposed to in the back of a limo?”

“How can someone fail so hard when they’ve only just begun?” she thunders out, flopping back into the seat with a dramatic flair.

Bucky stifles another laugh. “You’re not failing. You’re gonna make it on time and you’re gonna do great.”

“I haven’t even read the proposal,” she argues. “It’s sitting on my desk at the tower. I thought I’d have more than enough time, but now I don’t and I’m going to go into my first board meeting – where one of _my people_ is presenting – and I’m going to be completely out of the loop and unprepared and they’re all going to see what an inexperienced, immature, disorganized, mess of a human being I am.”

“You’re spiraling, doll,” he says simply, and she can almost see the smug smirk roll over his face.

She sighs, long and loud. “I told Maureen to get the proposal and meet me with it down in the lobby. But knowing her, she’ll probably hand me a random takeout menu on my way _out_ of the meeting instead.”

“Speaking of,” he interrupts swiftly. “Bring something good home for dinner tonight. What was that Indian place around the corner?”

She stills in the car and blinks rapidly for a moment, her mind reeling. “I’m about to go humiliate myself in front of the board of a multi-billion-dollar company and you’re placing an order for Tikka Masala?”

She can almost hear him shrug on the other end. “I don’t know what that is… but I definitely want some of that orange-looking chicken stuff.”

“Tikka Masala!” she shouts loud enough for Happy to drop the partition just a bit and ask if everything is okay. “It’s fine,” she tells him with a huff. “Just… hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a dutiful smile before turning back to the road.

“You should’ve told him to pick up the food for later,” Bucky says quietly, pulling a dramatic eyeroll from Tessa. As though he can sense her irritation, he issues out a small chuckle and repeats, “You’re going to do great.”

She collapses deeper into the leather seat and sulks. “If I had the Ducati, I’d be there by now.”

“If that’s true, then that’s just proof that you rode way too damn fast,” he says, a stiffness in his voice. “No more bikes. Not now. Not ever.”

She narrows her eyes at the phone by her side. “You’ve got a lot to learn about being a good husband,” she snarks. “What is it they say? Happy wife, happy life?”

He scoffs loudly. “Nine times out of ten you get your way.”

“But I like ten,” she counters with an almost audible pout.

“I’d sooner give in to living in the city. Listen,” he says, voice growing soft as he enters an area filled with faint murmurs and grunts. She hears what sounds like the crash of weights in the background, followed by an excited shout in the distance. “I gotta go, baby.”

“I hope you just got to the gym and not some underground fight club,” she says, her voice sounding light despite the deep frown pulling at her features.

“I did. I gotta go. Don’t forget dinner.”

“You aren’t going to wish me luck?” she asks with a pathetic squeak.

“Nope,” he tells her. “You don’t need it.”

000

Maureen shows up outside the conference room just as they’re all shuffling in, which means that Tessa has _zero_ time to read Dr. Vargas’ proposal. And – as _her_ luck would have it – his presentation is first on the agenda. Which means she doesn’t even get the opportunity to flip through the damn thing while pretending to listen to other board meeting nonsense. She takes a seat at the large mahogany conference table and glances down at the thickly bound booklet in her hand with a resigned sigh.

“I’m so sorry to make everyone change their schedules,” Dr. Vargas says as he moves to the front of the room. “And thank you so much for allowing me to open the meeting.” He looks over at Tessa with a grateful sort of sparkle in his eye. “And I’m so pleased that you could be here Dr. Sullivan. We’re all simply delighted to have you back, and I can’t wait to see what you think of the complex in Seattle when you come out next week.”

She offers the man a tight-lipped smile, only just now remembering that Vargas was the one Tony chose to set up the labs and testing facilities out west in her stead. “Looking forward to it.”

Charlton Vargas had been one of the researchers on her short list. His work was impressive and his recommendations were stellar. But there was something about him that rubbed her the wrong way. It wasn’t just the arrogance – that was something that was in no short supply among _all_ of the candidates. You didn’t get to be the best of the best without being confident, assertive, and, maybe even a bit cocky. She knew that from her own journey to the top.

It had more to do with his methodology… or perhaps his principles. He had worked for two of the largest pharmaceutical firms in the country after starting out at the FDA, which told her that he had no qualms about switching sides if the price was right. Despite the fact that he seemed like a perfectly lovely, kind, and polite man, in her mind, Dr. Vargas wasn’t far from being an amoral sell-out. But perhaps that was just her letting her inflexible ideals get in the way. After all, how could a man who helped to develop medication aimed at forever altering a person’s metabolism – to boost weight loss in otherwise healthy individuals, mind you – compare to someone like Dr. Ramos who was singlehandedly trying to rid the world of Ebola?

No, Dr. Vargas isn’t a bad man. And he certainly isn’t a bad scientist. He’s simply a physician who has a keener sense of profit than charity. Nothing wrong with that. Hell, that trait is part of what drew Tony to him when making the final hires.

Tessa is pulled abruptly from her thoughts by a high-pitched voice from across the table. “I have to say,” the older, extremely prim-looking – and only _somewhat_ familiar seeming – woman begins, “Dr. Vargas, I am a bit confused about the profitability of your plan as outlined here.”

He turns to her and smiles shortly. “Well, Ms. Dunkirk…” – _Dunkirk!_ Tessa thinks. _That’s her name!_ “The real profits may not be seen for some time.”

“I’ll say,” Harold Reagan – a long-standing, terribly intimidating board member – chimes in. “We don’t even have access to the X-gene. No one does. It’s too highly regulated.”

Tessa’s head snaps so fast in his direction that an audible crack stems from her neck. “The X-gene?” she asks, confusion unfurling around her wide eyes.

He narrows his gaze at her. “Didn’t you read the proposal, Dr. Sullivan?” he asks with an absolute air of superiority.

She sputters only slightly. “I… I didn’t have the chance yet.”

Tony, who snuck in just moments ago and took a seat in the far corner of the room, leans back in his chair, spinning it casually back and forth. “This is Dr. Sullivan’s first day back from medical leave,” he says to the others before looking at her with an almost sad, knowing stare. “Understandable she hasn’t gotten completely caught up yet.”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Vargas agrees. He turns to her with his eager, wide face. “What I’m proposing is a cure for mutantism,” he tells her with a bit too much enthusiasm. “It’s true that access to the X-gene is highly regulated. But I have connections in the State Department, and they are all _very_ eager to get moving on this.”

“A government contract?” Ms. Dunkirk asks, her interest piqued.

He nods. “A large one.”

“I’m sorry,” Tessa interrupts, her brows knitted, countenance stern. “What do you mean _cure_?”

He gives her a curious look, as though he had never anticipated such an odd question. “Well, I believe that mutantism, like any other genetic disease _can_ be cured. We’ve found the cause… the mutated X-gene. Now it’s just a matter of figuring out either how to keep it from replicating or how to, essentially, turn it off.”

She shakes her head slowly, trying to absorb his words. “The X-gene isn’t an aberrant chromosomal fluke,” she argues. “It’s a wholly intrinsic –”

“Look at the pain it causes people,” interjects a different board member – Sally something, if she recalls correctly. “With so many people suffering, how could it not be considered a disease?”

“Because it’s not,” she offers plainly.

Vargas pipes up again. “It’s true that there are certain beneficial anomalies associated with the X-gene, but that’s true of the gene that causes Sickle Cell too.”

Tessa turns back to the man, shaking her head slowly. “That’s an evolutionary attempt at eradicating a parasitic disease,” she explains hotly, completely unconcerned if the other board members are unaware of the gene’s tie to Malaria immunity. “That’s not at all how the X-gene formed.”

“Well,” he laughs, “We don’t really know how – or why – the X-gene formed. Do we, Dr. Sullivan?”

Tony glances over and sees her face redden as her lips press tightly together. “Why don’t you just lay out the proposal… in a nut shell,” he requests of Vargas, his eyes remaining trained on Tessa’s pinched countenance.

“Yes, of course. In a nut shell… the plan would be to submit the proposal for review in the hopes of receiving a government contract. With that we would be afforded access to the X-gene samples on file at the CDC and sufficient funds to begin research into determining a way to suppress the effects of the gene. There is some research that has been done on this over the years, so we wouldn’t be starting from scratch. Truthfully – and this is nothing more than an educated guess, I assure you – but based on the studies I’ve read and what I’ve learned from my own, albeit limited, exposure to the X-gene, I believe we could be into Phase One trials within the year.”

Tessa scoffs softly. Every fiber of her being wants to pin this man to the wall and ask him just what research he’s been privy to. Because she spent a damn big chunk of her childhood in the lab with Dr. Henry McCoy, learning about the X-gene while the rest of the world ignored his research because it didn’t apply to them. She spent years shadowing Dr. Moira MacTaggert at the Mutant Research Center on Muir Island, examining not just the gene itself, but the physiology of the people affected by it. She’s seen _hundreds_ of examples of the mutate gene he’s proposing to “fix”, whereas the scientific community at large has only ever had access to _eight_ profiles, all of which were kept under lock and key at the CDC and the WHO.

If Vargas notices her reaction, he doesn’t show it, instead trudging proudly on. “If we succeed at finding a cure, we could sell it to any number of pharma companies… any would pay top dollar.” He offers a smug nod, serious countenance peering out at the board members. “Mutants have only grown in numbers over the last several decades, and those numbers are going to continue to grow unless we do something to stem the tide of the mutant disease.”

Tessa stiffens at his words, jerking further upright in her chair. From the corner of her eye, she sees Tony’s insistent glare and raised hand. _Keep cool_ , he mouths to her.

“As you said, Ms. Newsome,” Vargas continues, “many people are suffering with this affliction. But more than that, we all are now faced with a serious threat because of the influx of mutantism. The America government is willing to fund our finding a cure because of this threat. But we must remember, it isn’t just about _our_ national security, mutants pose a risk to the security of the world at large. This is an international crisis, and we have the opportunity – I would say the obligation – to step in and make a difference.” He ends with a self-satisfied shrug. “And in so doing, make a _huge_ profit.”

The room is silent for a long moment, most everyone nodding thoughtfully as they take in his words. Tessa glances around the room, incredulity pouring over her features. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” creeps out of her taut lips in a low and dangerous tone. All eyes turn on her, with the exception of Tony’s, which are focused down in his lap. “You don’t want to _cure_ anyone. You want to genetically modify innocent people to make them fit into your preconceived notion of what a _human_ should be. And you want to do it because you know there’s money in it.”

“Dr. Sullivan,” Reagan interrupts, tone both chiding and disgusted.

She throws up a silencing hand, turning to the man. “Aside from the obvious ethical issues involved with this, think of the public outcry.”

“I believe that more of the public will error on the side of a cure than against it,” Vargas says from her other side.

Without turning back to face him, she rolls her eyes and goes on. “We haven’t even begun yet,” she states simply. “This division is brand new, and you want to throw it into a political shitstorm out of the gate? It doesn’t matter how many people are _for_ or _against_. If anyone is against it, and I guarantee that many would be, we’ll get dragged through the mud. And what do we have to fall back on then, huh? What other _wonderful_ contributions have we made that we can reference to show people that we’re not just a bunch of arrogant scientists playing God?”

“It’s a good point,” Tony breathes out, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looks up at Vargas. “Doctor, I know you have a plane to catch, so we’ll let you get to it. Everyone has a copy of your proposal. We’ll look it over and reconvene with a decision in two weeks. Thank you for your time,” he finishes, ushering the man out with his eyes. Without missing a beat, and without leaving any room for further discussion or protest, he claps his hands together, scoots over to the table, and says, “Now onto the boring stuff.”

The meeting lasts another hour and a half, but it’s not nearly enough time for Tessa’s nerves to settle. The minute they let out, she makes a beeline for Tony – well, in as much as she can while irately hobbling on crutches. “What the fuck, Tony?!” she seethes.

He tosses a glance over his shoulder, checking to make sure the others have all left the conference room. “I thought you would’ve read the proposal,” he states calmly.

“Well, I didn’t. And even if I had… _what the fuck_?”

“It’s a sound business proposition,” he says, absently gathering piles of papers before him on the table. “Timely. And the truth is, if we don’t do it, someone else will.” She says nothing, just stares at him long and hard, waits for him to look up and actually make eye contact with her. When he finally does, he lets out a long, pained sigh. “I’m not saying we _will_ do it. I’m just saying that I couldn’t very well turn him down out of hand. This is the kind of proposal the board wants to see.”

“Tony,” she says, dropping her eyes and shaking her head slowly, sadly. “It isn’t even just the idea of a _cure_ … which alone is…” She pins her lips closed as she thinks on what to say next. “This isn’t just me being… overly sensitive.”

He cocks his head at her and says, with utter sincerity, “I never thought it was.”

Their eyes connect for a brief moment, a tenuous sort of understanding tying them together. “There are far reaching implications,” she says finally, her voice now steady and calm. “If we do this, it’s opening up the market. Right now, X-gene work is highly regulated. If we manage to break into it, it’s only a matter of time before others find a way to do the same. And what are they going to do with it?” She raises a challenging brow and stares him down, her eyes suddenly dark. “What would _Lobe_ do with it? Or others like him? What happens when other researchers, worldwide, realize that they need access to the X-gene to keep up? And if they can’t get access to stored samples like we might… where do you think they’ll find that gene?”

A shadow passes over his face. “I don’t know,” he says flatly, shaking his head and slamming his mouth shut. He gives her a tight nod, obviously signaling the end to their conversation, before he gathers his pile of papers and turns to leave, abandoning her in the empty room that still echoes with the words put out earlier. _The mutant disease_.


	6. The Fight Never Ends

Some days it feels like all he does is fight.

Tessa wants to go out to Seattle for a few days to tour the new lab setup. Bucky thinks she should wait until she can at least walk on her own before traipsing around a 500,000-square-foot facility. _Fight_.

Romanov keeps dumping morning runs on him because, “It’s too cold.” Even though it’s her damn turn. And she’s from Russia for fuck’s sake. But… “You spent most of the last century frozen. You should be immune to the cold.” _Fight_.

Sam invites himself over for dinner so he and Tessa can gib-gab about his new girl all night. _Fight_.

Steve tells him he’s got some big important _thing_ to do… meaning, “I need you run the sparring sessions this morning.” Even though he just finished up running the drills that Romanov dropped in his lap, and he’s supposed to train with his own team this afternoon. _Fight_.

And sparring? Well, by definition, that’s a _fight_.

He used to think that things somehow always ended in a fight. Now, as he lays splayed out on the mat, getting his ass kicked by a bunch of green cadets for what feels like the hundredth time this week… Now he thinks they begin with one too.

“You’re looking pretty pathetic today, Sarge,” Robson croons as his 6’5” frame looms over Bucky. From this angle, the kid looks like he has the wingspan of a freaking condor as he spreads his arms wide before bringing his hands together for an excited clap. “Or maybe I’m just killing it!”

In one quick, fluid motion, Bucky rolls to his hip and shoots his right leg out to easily sweep Robson’s feet out from under him. The giant man falls with a thick thud, a pile of gangly limbs hitting the mat – _hard_ – beside him. “Yeah,” he mutters as he rises to a seated position and glares down at the kid. “You’re killing it.”

Atkinson approaches the two men, slapping Robson on the shoulder as her voice rings out, “Lesson number eighteen – never underestimate Sergeant Barnes.” She loops her arm through his and helps to haul him upright, the mismatched pair looking rather comical as he leans his large body on her shoulder, the petite woman desperately trying to steady herself under his weight as he regains his footing.

Bucky’s brow furrows as he rises with a groan. “How is that lesson _eighteen_?” he asks her. “What were one through seventeen?”

She shrugs, shucking the giant man off of her as she looks over at her training officer. “There are a lot of basic SOPs. And then it’s just random stuff that we’ve all picked up over the last six months… Never head into a debrief with a full bladder – especially if Captain Rogers is running it. Wear sunscreen – even in the winter – if we’re doing the obstacle courses on the east grounds. Oh, and _never_ make eye contact with Agent Romanov.”

He nods – “Fair enough.” – before glancing over her shoulder as the doors leading into the adjacent private gym swing open.

Atkinson smiles coyly as she leans in and says, “There’s another one about you too… number eleven… don’t ask Sergeant Barnes anything personal. Ever.”

He shoots her an impatient look, eliciting a small burble of laughter from the woman, before dropping his hand to her shoulder to usher her out of the way. “Start working drills,” he orders as he moves past the two on the mat and pushes his way through a few other recruits milling nearby. “All of you,” he shoots over his shoulder as he heads toward the other side of gym.

The grin slowly fades from Atkinson’s face as she watches him make a beeline for the pair across the way. “Who’s that?” she asks Robson, ticking her chin towards the dark-haired woman laughing and joking with Captain Rogers.

He steps up behind her, looming over her shoulder as he glances at them. “Dr. Sullivan?” She cocks her head up at him and shrugs. “She’s the lead physician. You never met her?” A quick shake of the head. “She didn’t do your intake?”

She turns back to study the unfamiliar woman, perplexed by how chummy she seems to be with Captain Rogers – and, it seems, with Sergeant Barnes. “No,” she says, watching as Barnes’ demeanor changes – his shoulders relaxing, gate almost bouncing – as he runs up to meet them. “Mattingly did.”

“Oh,” he goes on. “Well, she’s been out of commission for a while. Motorcycle accident, I think.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Reynolds has the 411, if you want more gossip.”

She rolls her eyes, but is unable to divert her gaze from the scene unfolding in front of her. “Why would I want that?” she murmurs, watching as the Sergeant leans into the strange woman, his hand delicately brushing her arm in a way that has her gut suddenly clenching.

Robson quirks a teasing brow as he drops down to whisper in her ear, “Because most of the gossip is about her and your favorite Sergeant.”

The moment Tessa catches Bucky’s eye, her beaming smile widens even further. “Hey,” she enthuses. “Getting all those noobs into shape?”

He scoffs and gives Steve a harsh glare. “Trying. It’s a little hard to do when the rest of the team keeps abandoning you.”

“Hey,” Steve defends. “I had something important to do.” He glances over at Tessa. “She did great, by the way.”

Bucky’s brows knit together as he looks at Tessa and takes in her sweat-laden hair and clothes. “What the hell have you been doing?” he asks, his tone a perplexing swirl of concern and amusement. “Don’t you have an actual physical therapist?”

She waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Steve talked to him and cleared everything.”

“Cleared everything?” he asks, his gaze narrowing suspiciously. He cocks his head to the side, only just now realizing that she’s standing – _unassisted_ – before him. His eyes blow wide as he feels the achingly familiar _fight_ bubble up inside of him. “Where the hell are your crutches?”

“ _Relax_.” The annoyed voice draws his attention as Natasha steps through the doorway, letting the heavy door to the private gym slam shut behind her. She moves over to Tessa and hands her the crutches before giving Bucky an exasperated eye roll.

Steve, still all smiles, looks to his friend and explains, “I thought I could help her out. She’s only scheduled for PT twice a week, so to make sure she does her exercises in between –”

Bucky’s glare remains fixed on Romanov. “And you needed to help out too?”

She shrugs. “Figured you could handle things here.” Then, raising an amused brow as she glances quickly over his shoulder. “I’m assuming you told them to take five?”

A confused frown spreads over his face as he turns to look behind him. Every single one of the recruits is standing right where he left them, staring wide eyed at the small group on the other side of the gym, watching them with such focused intensity that Bucky’s blood begins to boil. “Drills! Now!” he shouts with an angry sort of authority. And they all rush to the mats, pairing off quickly to begin self-defense maneuvers.

“That was _hot_ ,” Tessa utters from beside him. He glances over to see her leaning heavily on the crutches, a sure sign that she’s either in pain or simply exhausted. But her face is positively alight as she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at him. “Why don’t you ever order me around like that?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says as he snorts out a laugh. “Why don’t you order her around? Really… I would _love_ to see you try that.”

Tessa rolls her eyes dramatically. “I meant in bed,” she tells him. “You wanna see that?”

Unfazed, he quirks his head in her direction. “I’m not convinced you wouldn’t punch him in the face then either,” he replies with a wink.

Bucky shakes his head slowly, a small crooked smile blooming as he snakes an arm around Tessa’s back. Leaning down, he whispers in her ear, “I’ll come up with some drills for us to do later.” She lets out a light laugh and he nuzzles his face into her sweaty neck before pulling away suddenly and dropping his arm. He tosses a tentative glance over his shoulder to check in on the cadets, making sure they’re working instead of ogling.

“Looking forward to it, Sergeant,” she says playfully, pulling his attention back to her. Then, with a tired sigh, “But first, I have to shower and get back to work.”

The puckish grin he’d been wearing quickly slips from his face. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough for today?” he asks, familiar concern dripping from his words.

She barks out an incredulous laugh – “You’re funny. Hilarious.” – and turns to make her way out of the gym complex.

“Hey,” he says, lightly grabbing her wrist. “I’m serious. You should still be taking it easy.”

She waves him off. “I’m fine. Go mother-hen your students over there,” she says pointing to the recruits, most of whom, once again, have their attention trained on them. He shoots the group a threatening glare and they immediately pick up the pace. “You are good at that,” she intones with a sigh. He gives her a nearly identical look and she frowns at him mockingly. “I’m just going to check in at the lab for a bit and talk to Bruce. _Relax_.”

He raises a serious brow. “Be home by five.”

She cocks her head at him. “Is that an order?”

He nods. “Yeah it is,” he tells her, the corner of his mouth quirking up slyly.

“We’ll see,” she utters before commencing to hobble away.

He turns back to Steve and Natasha, both of whom are watching him intently, seemingly as entertained by his and Tessa’s interaction as the cadets across the gym. “I don’t know what you did to her back there,” he says to them, suspicious eyebrow raised. “But I’m pretty sure she’s gonna go pass out in her office and I’m gonna have to scrape her off her desk later.”

Steve gives an indignant snort. “She’ll be fine. You worry too much.”

“You,” he says, raising a pointed finger at his friend, “have been talking too much to that stubborn pile of broken bones.”

“I’m telling her you called her that,” he replies with a chuckle.

Nat pats Bucky sharply on the shoulder as she pushes past him. “Look on the bright side, Barnes. If she does go pass out at her desk, she’ll be well rested when you _drill_ her later.”

Almost in unison, Steve and Bucky both breathe out irritated sighs, shaking their heads as she leaves. They turn back to the group on the mats, watching them intently. “They’re looking good,” Steve mutters.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, though with a bit of hesitation.

“I was thinking…” he starts, his words trailing off into nothingness.

Without turning to face him, Bucky finishes his thought, the deep timbre of his voice setting a conclusive quality to his words. “You want to put them in the field.”

“They’ve all gone on training runs. Some of them assisted on recon missions.” He pauses briefly. “After your last op…” He trails off again, his mind wandering as he thinks back to the night Bucky got shot. Blood everywhere. His friend gasping and dying on a concrete floor. An unproven, under-prepared recruit plastered to the wall, frozen in terror. “I don’t want a repeat of that. Ever.”

Bucky’s brows raise high. “Me either. But Abrams was a question mark from the beginning.” He shakes his sadly, not thinking about the op itself, nor his near-death experience, but of the all-too-common look of utter dread on that kid’s face. “We never should’ve brought him on,” he laments, not for the first time. Even as he utters the words, though, a series of very different thoughts rolls through his mind. _I should’ve done better. He needed more help. We failed him._ I _failed him_.

Steve turns to him, his gaze aggrieved. He knows what Bucky’s thinking. He’s been struggling with those same doubts since the day he cut Abrams loose. “Yeah,” he agrees with a simple, sharp nod. Then, turning back to the others, he asks, “What do you think? Any question marks out there?”

His eyes narrow, brows knitting together as he studies each of the remaining ten recruits. This will be their support team. These _kids_. He’s not sure why he thinks of all of them as kids still. Despite being 100, he more often than not recognizes people of his same genetic age – as Tessa likes to call it – as being his peers. And the recruits range from 28 to 35. But there’s something about the innocent enthusiasm that drips from each and every one of them that just makes their faces shine like pure, naïve kids.

It probably isn’t fair for him to think of them as being naïve or innocent or pure. They’re experienced in combat, in counter-espionage, in tactical warfare. They’ve all seen shit. He knows this. But once you’ve been through what he has – and not _just_ as the Winter Soldier either – everyone else’s formative experiences seem to pale in comparison.

As a _kid_ , he left home to go fight a cold and deadly war a world away. He lost friends in battle. He watched fellow soldiers fade and die as Hydra prisoners. He himself had begged for death every time he had the wherewithal to do so… for decades. Just a couple of years ago, he watched from atop a floating city as the world moved towards an inevitable demise. He’d killed for his country. He’d killed out of fear. He’d killed as part of someone else’s mission. He’d killed for no reason at all. He’d killed… so damn many people.

Could these soldiers do that? If it came down to it, if he ordered them to kill, would they do it? Could he even bring himself to give that order to this group of _kids_?

He lets out a long, deflating sigh and goes down the lineup for Steve. “McKay and Reynolds are good. No doubts there,” he says of the two former CIA operatives who’ve been at the top of the class since the beginning. “Robson needs to get his head outta his ass and take shit seriously. But he did two tours in the Korengal Valley…”

“So we know he _can_ keep his head out of his ass,” Steve finishes with a small smirk. “What about Atkinson and Madini?” he asks, voice low as he utters the names of the only two women who remain after last week’s final cuts.

Bucky nods. “Madini’s fierce as hell. She’s just gotta stop trying to _prove_ something all the damn time. But she’s got skills and smarts. So does Atkinson. And she’s got the confidence that Madini lacks. She’s good, Steve. Damn good. And she knows it.”

“She’s tiny,” he mutters softly, almost to himself. “What is she, 5’2”… 5’3”?”

Bucky shrugs. “How tall is Romanov?”

He stifles a short laugh. “Point taken.”

“They’re good,” Bucky says with a definitive nod. “All of them. They’re ready.”

“Alright then,” Steve says, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s get them all officially cleared for duty. We’re setting up an op in Nigeria. Recon with a good chance of seeing action. I want your top two picks by the end of the week.”


	7. A Personal Stake

It took some convincing… _a lot_ of convincing, actually. But Tessa finally managed to get everyone on board with her long-postponed trip out to Seattle.

The Stark Industries human resources department simply needed a note from her doctor stating that she was well enough to travel unassisted. That was easy – it just required a small deal with the devil. She had Bruce – her _mostly_ official GP – sign off on her physical fitness. And in return, she signed off on his request for a four-week long sabbatical set to begin the _moment_ she returns.

Steve said that he’d be on board too – and would even argue on her behalf to Bucky – so long as she could prove to him that she could handle getting around on her own. Queue their rather intensive, terribly exhausting, supplemental PT sessions wherein she managed to mask every ounce of pain and fatigue to convince him of her capabilities.

Bucky, for his part, didn’t put up nearly the fight she expected. “Eat like a normal person every day this week, and I’ll consider it,” had been his only real request. Though the look on his face when she left this morning – the almost despondent, disbelieving frown he wore when he asked, “You sure you don’t want me to come along?” with a hint of hurt buried amid the teasing in his voice – told her that he didn’t really expect her to go on the trip at all.

Considering that, up until a few weeks ago, she still needed his help showering and getting dressed, she’s a little surprised she’s going herself.

But the real problem had been Tony. At first, he simply said no. Repeatedly. _No, you’re not going. No way in hell. You can go to Seattle when I say, and not a minute before. Stop bringing it up, kid… I said ‘no!’_

But then he shit the bed on the whole ‘mutant cure’ thing. Not only had he neglected to warn her about the contents of Vargas’ proposal, but he also spent the days that followed the board meeting actively avoiding her so that he wouldn’t have to discuss it. And, of course, there was the fact that he had even greenlighted the proposal to move in front of the board to begin with. It was not his place to do that – this was _her_ division after all, Vargas was a member of _her_ team – and he damn well knew it.

But as was Tony’s way, he’d much rather hand out gifts and concessions to make up for presumed slights than to ever admit he may have been wrong or should’ve done something differently. And in this instance, that was fine with Tessa. As long as she got what she wanted in the end, the why behind it didn’t really matter. What _did_ matter, though, was his one condition… he had to go out there with her.

“I should be there to introduce you to your staff,” he’d told her stiffly. “And besides, there are things I need to check in on,” an obvious lie.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was going because he wanted to keep an eye on her. Because – not that he would ever admit it – her being hurt had scared the hell out of him. And when Tony gets scared, he runs. He’d spent the last few months hiding behind the excuse of needing to pick up her slack at work so that he could stay as far away from her as possible. As a result, he had missed watching her struggle when she was at her worst. So he now had no clue how far she’d actually managed to come. In his mind, she was still… broken.

And maybe it shouldn’t – it probably shouldn’t – but for some reason that really pisses Tessa off.

“C’mon, Tony,” she snaps at him, seeing him glance out of the corner of his eye – for the umpteenth time today – at her braced leg. The same pathetic frown he’s been wearing since they boarded his private jet is still plastered on his face. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine?”

His eyes slowly move over to meet her fiery gaze. “What are you talking about?” he asks with a sigh.

She leans forward in her seat, slow, heated words slipping from between her lips. “Stop staring at me.”

He scoffs. “I’m not staring at you. You’re so full of yourself.”

“Tony,” she starts, shaking her head before turning away in a huff, unable to complete her thought.

He watches her for a long moment – _stares_ at her – as he waits for her to go on. When she doesn’t, he lets out another deep, loud sigh. “I just don’t want you to overdo it,” he states plainly. She glances up at him, a bit taken aback by his sudden honesty. A bit irritated that he thinks he needs to somehow take care of her. He throws his hands up in the air in defeat. “I’m not allowed to worry?”

Her expression hardens. “No, Tony,” she says through gritted teeth. “You’re not allowed to worry.” She folds her arms tightly over her chest, agitation blooming brighter merely from hearing the concern in his voice. She feels the spite swell within her a fraction of a second before the words come out. “Just like you’re not allowed to _cure_ me.”

He gives her a brief look of confusion before his cheeks begin to pink and his eyes turn away in shame. _Shame_. That’s what she feels roll off of him. Shame mixed with fear and regret and concern and – _ah, there it is_ , she thinks as he turns back to her with a cocky smirk – indignation. “I told you, that was a sound business proposal. And in case you haven’t noticed, this is a business.”

“He called it a disease,” she says, her voice softening despite the crispness to her words. “Do you think it’s a disease? Do you think I’m _diseased_?” she asks, realizing just now that this is the very question she’s been trying to ask him all week.

He shakes his head slowly before turning and training his gaze out the window of the plane. A thick silence falls around them and she assumes he’s done talking. After all, if Tony Stark doesn’t have a quick, witty retort, then he likely has nothing to offer at all.

But then his voice sounds, deep and gentle and sincere, from across the aisle. “I think your mutation nearly killed you.” He turns to look at her with a wistful sort of guise. “I used to think you were just… amazing. Knowing only the little bit I knew about who you were and what you could do.” All at once, his expression transforms, a drawn and bitter scowl taking over. “But now I know _more_. Now I know that it caused you so much pain and suffering that…” His lips clamp shut momentarily before he lets out a sharp, almost hateful sounding laugh. “Sounds like a disease to me. Yeah. And a pretty bad one at that.”

It’s rare for Tessa to be struck dumb. _Very_ rare. Being quiet, being agreeable, being nonconfrontational… these things are not her strong suits. But for the first time in a very long time, she honestly doesn’t have a clue what to say. So she says nothing at all.

By the time they land, her stunned silence has transformed into a willful sulk. For the rest of the day – other than the required niceties as he introduces her to key staff members at the Seattle facility – she says nothing to him at all.

If Tony’s hurt by her silent treatment, or even just annoyed, he does a damn good job at keeping it from showing. He even tries to get her to go out to dinner with him and Dr. Vargas, but she claims fatigue and heads to the hotel for room service instead. It’ll be hard enough to be with the two of them all day tomorrow as they tour the labs and discuss potential projects. And besides…

“I just can’t… be near him right now,” she laments pathetically as she video chats with Bucky that night. “I thought that he was just being… Tony. You know? Seeing an opportunity to innovate and make a buck, and jumping on it without thinking of the consequences. But… I think he actually thinks this is a good idea. A _cure_.”

She sees his face turn stony, much as it had when she first told him about Vargas’ proposal last week. His jaw tightens and ticks as he thinks on what to say, thinks about what he _can_ say that might help. But he’s at a loss. And all at once, she’s sorry she mentioned anything about it at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” she states suddenly, shaking her head as she reaches over and plucks another fry from the plate sitting next to her on the bed. “It’s not like I’ve never been part of discussions like this before. It’s fine.”

He cocks his head curiously. “When have you talked about things like this before?”

She shrugs. “Different times. This idea – finding a way to _deactivate_ the X-gene, _cure_ the mutant population of their affliction – it isn’t anything new really. I think it just has me frazzled because so many people are clamoring for it now. Including people like Tony,” she bites out with a deep frown. Then, after a long sigh, she puts on a crooked smile and raises an eyebrow at the man on the screen. “You know, before you and your other _super_ friend came along, my kind was doing just fine being lowly, largely ignored freaks. Now that The Avengers are a thing and aliens are attacking, and _inhumans_ are, well… out there… _now_ all eyes are on us. And not in a good way. If it isn’t Lobe trying to find a way to clone our gifts for non-mutants, it’s… _Stark Industries_ trying to fix us.”

“And you blame me for that?” he asks with a smirk.

She shrugs again and goes eerily silent for a long moment, a contemplative look rolling over her features as she absently chews her food. “I think I remember talking about this with Hank,” she mutters softly. Then, gathering her thoughts and looking back to Bucky. “It’s weird… how I’m now remembering things.” She shakes her head distractedly. “The other night I thought about something I hadn’t thought about in forever.”

“What’s that?”

She raises her brows almost playfully. “I used to play the violin.”

His face takes on an skeptical yet fascinated look. “Really?”

She nods. “When I was a kid. It’s just weird because I remembered Anna playing, but… I don’t know,” she tells him with wide eyes. “I thought about it and I remembered it and… and it was just me. Just ten-year-old me playing _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ on the violin.”

“That’s a good choice,” he hums out.

She smiles at him. “I bet you saw _The Wizard of Oz_ when it first came out.”

He nods proudly. “Damn right I did. That film was a life changer.”

“ _Technicolor_ ,” she enthuses in a teasing tone before popping another fry into her mouth.

“You kids today,” he breathes out. “You’ll never understand.” Tessa laughs tenderly and lets out a giant, gaping yawn. “You should get some sleep,” he tells over the chat.

She gazes at him on the screen for a long moment before responding. “Tell me tomorrow will be okay,” she says, a shadow passing over her features.

He simply smiles at her, all loving reassurance. “Baby, you got this.”

000

“I absolutely agree that we should be devoting resources to gene therapy for certain cancers,” Vargas argues from across the conference table. “That’s a no brainer.” He looks Dr. Chin in the eye as he states, “But that’s also something that every other genetic research facility is working towards. I’d hate to put all of our eggs into a _single_ basket that may end up yielding no return.”

Emil Ramos speaks up, actually shooting a hand out in front of his colleague, Esther Chin, to silence her so that he might argue the point. “This isn’t about _yielding a return_. This is about finding a treatment – a cure – for one of the chief killers of _human beings_ ,” he finishes in a scolding tone.

Vargas barely blinks, entirely unfazed by the reproach. “Dr. Chin’s research revolves around juvenile osteosarcoma, which is most assuredly _not_ among the chief killers of human beings. If that were truly your concern, I’d think you’d want to focus more on breast cancer, even Leukemia.”

“The implications of her research are far reaching. It’s likely that we _could_ find effective treatment for breast cancer using Dr. Chin’s findings.”

“Yes,” Dr. Vargas sighs out. “That is _possible_. But no one is going to fund a _possibility_ any more than they will a vaccine for Ebola.” He leans forward, propping himself on his elbows at the table. “Look, I completely understand the desire to save the world, but we have to think big picture here too.”

“And the 11,000 dead in west Africa from Ebola over the last two years aren’t part of your _big picture_ ,” he counters, emitting a smug and irritated huff.

Tessa rolls her eyes and leans forward in her seat. “Alright. Enough. We’re not gathered here to bitch about bleeding hearts or call out miserly capitalists. And we’re sure as hell not here to put down anyone’s research. You all have proven – through that research – that you deserve to be here and to be part of this company. And now that you are here, it’s your _job_ to work together to find solutions.” She glances over at Tony and sees him staring off into space, clearly not at all interested in this little meeting of the minds. “Let’s just take a break,” she offers with a sigh. “Go get check in at your stations, grab some coffee, and meet back here at three. And this time, bring solutions, not petty arguments.”

Drs. Chin and Ramos collect their things and leave the room in silence. “You want a cappuccino?” Tony asks her on his way out.

She glances up at him, fighting the urge to toss him a dirty look. “Sure,” she nods with a resigned sigh. “Thanks,” before collapsing exhaustedly back in her chair.

“Dr. Sullivan?” Vargas asks softly. “I was wondering if you had a moment to discuss my proposal? I trust that you’ve read over it since the board meeting last week?”

She sighs long and loud before looking up at him as he looms over her. It really was only a matter of time before he brought it up. Actually, she’s rather surprised it took him this long to do so. “I did,” she nods, steeling her nerves for the impending discussion.

“Excellent.” He drops into the seat by her side, a wide smile pulling at his lips. “I do realize that I should have come to you first. But –”

“But I wasn’t here,” she finishes for him. “I know. I understand.”

“I do value your opinion, though. And I must say, your opinion seemed rather… _anti_.”

She swivels her chair a bit to face him. “Dr. Vargas,” she begins, countenance grim as she speaks. “I don’t see the X-gene as a disease causing factor. Therefore, I don’t believe that the effect of the X-gene – _mutation_ – can be seen as a disease. Seeing as how it’s not a disease, it cannot be cured. _That_ is my opinion on your proposal.”

He nods slowly, his brow furrowed as he thoughtfully processes her words. “I see,” he replies. “I do see.” He looks back up at her, not a hint of animosity in his voice when he says, “I disagree. I’ve seen a lot of people suffer from the mutant affliction.”

She looks him dead in the eye, a good amount of vitriol in her voice when she says, “Over the years, I’ve seen a lot of people suffer for having darker skin tones too. But would you say that being African American is an _affliction_?”

He smiles kindly at her. “To be fair,” he says with a lilt, “I’m only _half_ African American. My father was Puerto Rican.” Tessa’s shoulders loosen and relax a bit at his easy response. Not for the first time, she finds herself humbled by this man’s ability to remain impassive and professional, even when essentially under attack. “I would never want to change the color of my skin,” he goes on. “No. Not even if it would have afforded me an easier time of it. And I did grow up in east Texas in the 1970s.” He pauses just long enough to let out a light chuckle. “But I do think that you and I can both agree, my being black doesn’t give me special, potentially dangerous powers.”

“Of course not,” she replies. “But it is – I assume – part of your identity?”

He nods. “Of course it is.”

“For many mutants, being such is part of theirs.”

“I’m sure it is,” he says with a more serious gaze. “And I would never want to _force_ anyone into changing who they are or how they see themselves.”

“You may not, Dr. Vargas. But what is it that you think the government will do with your _cure_?”

“I think that they will practice good prudence. I _hope_ that they will. And they’ll only ever force the cure on someone who poses an immediate and extreme threat.” He leans back in his chair and shakes his head sadly. “There are bad people in this world, Dr. Sullivan. Some of them use words to threaten and intimidate others. Some of them use guns and knives and bombs to rape, steal, kill… or to further some sort of misguided agenda. Some of them use armies to wage war on their neighbors. And some of them don’t need any of these things to bring the world to its knees. Such is the way of things now.”

“Dr. Vargas,” she says, her tone measured. “The world has been that way for some time. Mutants are not new. These people… with extreme abilities… are not new. Only the _widespread_ fear of them is.”

He gives her a thoughtful look, cocking his head a bit as he considers not only her words, but the passion behind them. “It seems that this subject is rather near to you,” he says, the words spilling slowly, almost cautiously from his lips. “I can appreciate having a personal stake in things – ”

“I never said I have a personal stake in this,” she interrupts quickly, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

Vargas merely smiles. “Dr. Sullivan, when I was a boy, my uncle died of Sickle Cell Disease. He never made it to his twenty-first birthday.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says simply, her face impassive.

“It was 1974. We didn’t know as much about the disease then. It was genetic, sure. But… what did that mean? And how should we treat it?” She listens aptly as he goes on. “But the truth is, very few people even cared about the answers to those questions back then.” He leans in and raises his eyebrows. “It was a _black_ disease, after all.”

Despite being a bit puzzled by his rather sudden tangent, she finds her interest piqued. “Is that why you got into medicine?”

He nods. “My mother died not long after I was accepted into medical school. And before she… left, I promised her that one day I would find the cure.”

Tessa’s brows knit together, confusion leadening her words. “But you’ve never participated in research geared toward Sickle Cell,” she points out.

“Haven’t I?” Again, he leans back, that same confident, casual grin that he seems to wear so easily rolling back over his face. “I went to work at the FDA so that I could be on the front lines of drug approval. Maybe help push things forward for those of us who were… underrepresented. I was there when hydroxyurea was first approved for use in Sickle Cell.” He gives her a self-satisfied smirk as he says, “My defining moment at that organization.”

“But you moved into the private sector,” she points out quickly.

“I did,” he nods. “And I earned a good paycheck. Very good. And then I used that money to continually reinvest in things like vector therapies targeted a hematopoietic stem cells.”

She nods then, a small _ahhh_ falling from her lips. “That’s what you were working on with Dr. Brenner at Starr Labs… I just assumed it was Cancer research.”

“It was… but the implications for the treatment of Sickle Cell…” he intones, trailing off at the end. He looks at her genuinely. “I may not have been at the forefront, Dr. Sullivan. But I’ve always worked to position myself in such a way that would most benefit that which I hold a personal stake in. I worked to fund the research because I know that my strengths don’t lie in _doing_ the research.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “In this community, I’m an old man.”

“Dr. Vargas, we wouldn’t have hired you if we felt you were unqualified. The work you’ve done on immunotherapies – ”

“Has offered an excellent jumping off point for scientists much younger and smarter than me,” he’s quick to point out with a tilt of the head and a knowing smirk. “Mr. Stark brought me on because I know the _business_. I have connections at the FDA, which allows recourse if our research isn’t greenlighted. I know what it takes to bring a drug to market… and I know which drugs are likely to never see the light of day.” He gazes at her kindly, the softness in his eyes ensuring that his next words don’t come off as too patronizing. “You’re young, Dr. Sullivan. Dr. Chin is young. And Dr. Ramos is… terribly idealistic. I was hired here to bring in a bit of… perspective.”

“And that’s what you believe you’re doing with this proposal?” she asks, a frustrated, biting quality to her voice.

“Research is already being done on the X-gene… perhaps not legally. But it is happening. As you said, people are afraid. And if there’s one thing I know about the _business_ side of all this, it’s that once the public begins to fear something, every research facility, every pharma firm, every single person in the business of making money, sees nothing but opportunity.” He raises a serious, almost stern brow as he declares, “This isn’t going away, Dr. Sullivan. In fact, it’s only going to intensify.”

Her gaze drops to her lap as she sadly, hesitantly nods. “Maybe,” she affirms before pulling in a tight breath and smugly reconnecting with his eyes. “But I don’t want _this_ division to be opportunistic.”

“Then you don’t want it to succeed.”

She startles only briefly, a disappointed sort of understanding slowly welling in her eyes.

“If this is important to you, if you do in fact have a personal stake… whether you believe that the X-gene is a disease-causing agent or…” He pauses and gives her a soft smile. “Or the next step in human evolution. No matter which side you’re on, if you want to make a difference, I encourage you to take this opportunity. At least here you’ll have some measure of control. Think of what might happen if a cure is found by some other _opportunistic_ individual first.”


	8. Edward

“No. No, absolutely not.” Bucky throws his hands up in the air, palms splayed desperately in front of Clint. “I’m not taking it. Not now.”

“What do you mean, _not now_?” Clint laughs as he forces his way into the apartment, pushing past Bucky and into the center of the living room. He sets the small carrier down and kneels beside it. “You said you’d take him when he was ready. He’s ready.”

“Don’t you dare open that door,” Bucky growls, aiming a pointed, threatening finger at him. Clint cranes his neck to glance at the man and emits a smile almost cruel in its amusement. “I mean it,” he tells him, brows raised. “Tessa won’t be back for two more days, and I’m not taking care of that thing on my own.”

Without turning away his devilish gaze, Clint casually pops the door open on the cat carrier. “Not my problem,” he hums out.

Bucky’s breath catches in his chest and he watches intently as the little gray tiger-striped ball of fluff slowly emerges from the carrier. The kitten stops about halfway out, turns his tiny head to and fro to take in his new surroundings, and then darts like a bat out of hell across the room to hide under the couch. “You’re an asshole,” he says to Clint, face expressionless.

He gives a small chuckle as he rises. “Coop made sure he knew how to use the litter box, so you’re gonna want to show him where that is on the grand tour.”

“You know,” they hear suddenly from behind, an amused voice carrying across the apartment. Both men turn to see Sam looming in the open doorway, leaning on the doorframe. “I’ve heard that you can actually train a cat to use the toilet.”

“Close the damn door,” Clint exclaims, hurriedly striding over to pull Sam into the apartment. He swings the door shut and gives him a rather stern stare. “You know what could happen if that cat escaped out into the compound?”

“No,” he replies, moving casually into the room.

Clint sighs. “Neither do I, but I don’t want to find out.” He turns to Bucky. “Did you tell Tony about him yet?”

“I make it a point not to tell Stark anything,” he grumbles, his arms folded tightly over his chest as he continues to watch for movement from beneath the couch.

Sam saunters over to the kitten’s hiding spot, laughing lightly as he bends down next to the sofa. “He’s probably gonna shit a brick.” He peers cautiously into the darkness underneath the couch and smiles wide when he sees two large, round, gleaming eyes looking back at him. “Hey, little guy,” he says softly. “You wanna come out and meet your Uncle Sam?”

“Speaking of shitting,” Clint goes on, “I wasn’t kidding about showing him where the box is. If you don’t, he will shit wherever he damn well pleases.”

Bucky looks down at the man curled up on the floor. “Were you serious about the toilet thing?” he asks, watching as Sam reaches beneath the couch and slowly extricates the kitten from its hiding spot.

“Oh, what a good boy,” he enthuses, wrapping the cat into a gentle embrace as he turns to lean his back against the sofa. “Look at that good boy,” he mutters as he gives a soft scratch behind the ears. The kitten offers a small, contented mewl and begins to make bread on Sam’s chest, slowly pattering his tiny paws in rhythm. Without looking back up at the other humans in the room, he replies, “Yeah, I saw it somewhere. Cats are smart, man.”

“Great,” Bucky intones. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to teach it how.”

“A thousand dollars?” he asks with a chuckle, glancing up.

“Two?” he offers in response.

Clint just shakes his head. “You don’t even have a litter box, do you?”

He turns on him slowly, dangerously, a menacing hint of the Soldier burning behind his irises. “I didn’t know you were bringing it _today_.”

“We talked about him coming back to New York at the meeting yesterday,” Sam mentions, most of his attention still focused on the ball of fluff in his hands.

Clint blinks his gaze away from Bucky, the threatening stare making him a bit too uncomfortable. “And I told Doc that I’d be bringing the cats with me,” he says, instinctively taking a step back.

Sam’s head snaps up. “Cats?” he asks, a hint of nervous excitement to his voice. “There’s another one somewhere?”

Bucky leans back against the wall, his shoulders relaxing only slightly, his arms still remaining tightly folded over his chest. “Romanov got the other one.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, cupping his hand over the kitten’s back. “Tony’s gonna be pissed.”

Bucky shakes his head bitterly before turning back to Clint. “Tessa didn’t tell me you were bringing it today. And she’s not here. So you should just… take it with you and come back when she is here.”

Clint reconnects with his gaze, no longer intimidated now that he sees that the eerie remnants of the cold-blooded killer are gone… nothing more than a familiar, irritated haze now clouding the man’s otherwise bright blue eyes. “Ah, no.”

Sam climbs slowly up onto the couch and settles in with the kitten still nestled on his chest. “You know how he gets when the lady of the house is away,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye.

Clint moves across the room and plops down onto the sofa next to him. “Yeah, where is she anyway?”

“Seattle,” he supplies, not waiting for Bucky to respond. “She’s checking out the new facility out there.”

“So she’s officially back at it, huh?” He glances over at Bucky, who’s still brooding rather intensely across the room, staring daggers at the intrusive threesome before him. “He doesn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Well,” Sam breathes out. “Tessa _is_ notorious for pushing herself too hard. And she does have a lot going on right now… with PT and going back to work, and the sessions at the school.”

“Yeah,” Clint mutters, knitting his brows together. “How’s that going?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s hard, you know. But she’s figuring things out.”

Bucky’s expression changes suddenly, his interest piqued. He pushes off the wall and cocks his head curiously at Sam. “Has she talked to you about it?” he asks, his voice a mix of trepidation and yearning.

He nods. “A little. We met up for coffee a few times last week.” He turns back to Clint. “It’s good to have somebody else in the city again. Starting to feel awfully lonely out there.”

“I thought you were moving up here,” Clint says, confused frown on his face.

“I was going to, but the last time I spent more than a few days here, we had a security breach.”

Bucky nods. “He got his ass kicked by a midget.”

Sam scowls at him. “It wasn’t a midget. And you can’t say _midget_ anymore. That’s offensive.”

“Of course I can’t,” he intones with an eyeroll. “No one can say _anything_ anymore.”

Looking back to Clint, Sam tries to explain. “It was an average-size person. He just… shrunk himself down to be real tiny.” Then, back at Bucky, “And he didn’t _kick my ass_.”

“Sure,” he mutters. “The whole thing traumatized him so bad he ran back home to the city,” he says to Clint.

Sam shrugs. “I’d rather take my chances in Bed-Stuy at night than have to deal with that weird-ass shit again.”

“You might be in the wrong line of work if you don’t want to deal with any _weird-ass shit_ ,” Bucky tells him tritely. “Anyway, what did she say?” he asks, tone pressing.

Sam looks at him seriously, assessingly, for a long moment. “She hasn’t talked to you about it?”

Bucky pulls in a deep breath – “A little. – and he lowers himself down onto the arm of the couch. “She just…” he starts, struggling to find the words. “She seems…” He shakes his head in frustration. “I don’t know.”

Sam nods earnestly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. Like I said, it’s hard.” He reaches out and pats Bucky’s knee with his free hand. “She’s got a lot to figure out.” He rises slowly. Looming over Bucky, he gently deposits the nearly sleeping kitten into his hands. “But I bet she’ll be real happy to find this little bundle when she gets back.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters bitterly as he accepts the cat, cringing when an errant claw pierces him in the chest as it curls up into him. “At least someone’ll be happy about it.”

000

Their video chat that night begins with him incessantly swatting at the tiny fur ball on his shoulder as he asks, voice full of ire, if she forgot to mention anything to him.

Once her wide-eyed exclamations taper off into a jealous, melancholy pout, he spews out all of the irritation he’d been saving up for the past few hours. “He doesn’t seem interested in his food at all, but he batted my sandwich of the plate when I wasn’t looking and ran off with the cheese. Which is probably rotting under the sofa now. I got the litter box all set up, but I am _not_ convinced that the damn thing actually knows how to use it. If he does know how, then he’s just an asshole. But really, the shit that he left in a pile of dirty laundry – which _you_ left sitting in the bathroom, by the way – was the easiest mess of his to clean up.” He lets out a long sigh and rolls his eyes. “We need a new chair for the corner of the living room. The back’s ripped to shreds.”

Tessa listens intently, wistful smile on her face as she watches her family from a lonely hotel room thousands of miles away. “Wasn’t it Tony who said that one day you’d make an excellent overbearing mother?” she asks coyly.

He stops swatting at the cat, giving in to let him perch precariously atop his metal shoulder. “Your mind is like a damn steel trap,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well,” she intones, “I was made to essentially forget much of my life up to this point. I guess that freed up some space in here,” she taps at her temple, “for other things.”

“And yet you couldn’t remember to mention that Barton was bringing the cat today.”

She ducks her head shyly. “I know,” she says before looking back into the camera with big, apologetic eyes. “I said I’m sorry.”

Bucky laughs lightly, his annoyance melting away as he watches Tessa smile and wrinkle her nose at the kitten on his shoulder. “You know, he still needs a name.”

“Oh, right.” She rolls her eyes glibly. “Because you won’t have a _Max_ in your home.” She lets out a small huff before turning a tender gaze back at him. “Well, you spent the day with him… what do you think?”

“What do I think?

“Yeah. What does he strike you as?”

Bucky goes silent for a moment, his face pinching into a thoughtful expression. “I’ve mostly just been calling him ‘Cat.’ But… I don’t know… Lucifer? Hellraiser? Little Bastard?”

“Ha, ha,” she intones, reproachful quality to her voice. “You’re hilarious.”

“We could call him Stark,” he suggests, a playful twinkle in his eye. “He’s selfish and demanding and he gets on my nerves. And he spends way too much time grooming himself.”

“Tony’s middle name is Edward,” she says with a raised brow and a teasing lilt. “We could name him after him and he wouldn’t even know.”

Bucky laughs just heartily enough for the sound and the movement of his body to scare the kitten off of him. He turns his gaze over his shoulder and watches as the little guy gingerly walks around the bed in search of a spot to curl up. “Eddie the cat,” he murmurs.

“Eddie the cat,” she confirms.

He raises both brows as the kitten plops down onto Tessa’s pillow and immediately begins to purr. “You better hurry back,” he says, turning around to face her on the tablet set in front of him. “Looks like someone’s trying to take your place.”

She smiles longingly, perhaps a bit sadly. “I miss you,” she hums.

“I miss you too.” He stares at her face on the screen long and hard, watches as her dejected expression lifts just a bit as she squints over at the kitten. “You never told me how things went today,” he mentions casually.

“Yeah,” she drawls out, looking back at him. “Well… I guess I don’t really know how things went.” He quirks a curious brow at her. “I think my people might hate each other. Except Ramos and Chin… I actually think they might be sleeping together,” she says with a wrinkled countenance. “And then there’s this whole… proposal.”

“You talked to Vargas about it?” he asks, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.

She nods. “I did. But honestly…” she emits a long, frustrated growl and falls back dramatically into the pillows of the bed she’s sitting on. “I don’t know,” she ekes out helplessly.

Bucky frowns, his gaze dropping to his lap as he hesitantly offers, “Maybe you should talk to your family about it.”

She sits bolt upright and glares at him wide-eyed. “No,” she says, shaking her head vehemently. “No. They can’t know about this. This is my company. This is my _job_. What if the board decides to do it? What then?”

He shrugs. “You could always step down.”

She narrows her eyes threateningly. “Stop it.”

“Baby,” he starts, pinching his lips together furiously. “If they do this… I don’t want you near any of that shit.”

She cocks a single brow at him. “If they do this, I think _here_ is exactly where I need to be.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” She stops just long enough to exhaustedly scrub at her face with her hands. “If I can lead the research, then I’ll have control over how this goes. I can make sure that this _cure_ is selective and unhazardous. I can be part of deciding who gets access to it and when. I can write certain stipulations into the contracts regarding use.” She locks eyes with him and feels as though she can sense his concerned energy, even from miles away. “This might end up being the best thing.”

He shakes his head sorrowfully. Then, with a long, drawn-out sigh, he mutters, “For the record, I don’t like any of this.”

She gives a tight nod. “I’m not too happy about it myself.”

He stares at her for a long, silent moment, a deeply pensive expression shadowing his face. “I want you to know something,” he says, tone slow and measured. “I love you just the way you are.”

A sharp, guttural laugh spills out of her. “What?”

He cocks a brow as a small, crooked smile tugs at his lips. “I wouldn’t mind if you cleaned up more. Maybe took better care of yourself. And worked less,” he finishes with a weighty nod. “But the mutant thing… Baby, that gene helped make you who are. And I _fucking love_ who you are.”

She quirks a playful grin. “So you’re saying that I shouldn’t get in line for the cure?”

He pulls in a slow breath and leans forward as though he might actually be able to get closer to her from all those miles away. “I’m saying that there’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing about you – or any of your family – that needs to be _cured_. And I don’t ever want you thinking that there is.”

She nods lightly. “Yeah, I know.” Then she glances down at the newspaper lying unfolded beside her laptop. _Canada Passes First Registration Laws for Mutants and Enhanced_ , it reads.

She had plucked it from the stand in the hotel lobby just an hour ago as she exhaustedly dragged herself back to her room. The article was short and not particularly insightful – really nothing more than an announcement that Canada had begun to lead the way in modern threat containment. There was no op-ed with an opposing viewpoint. No notes about any sort of possible backlash. It was delivered as fact – Canada, a first-world nation with arguably one of the greatest focuses on civil liberties and multiculturalism in the world – had brazenly begun the fight to protect its citizens from the dangers posed by _them_.

She looks back up at her computer, meets Bucky’s sweet, sincere gaze. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”


	9. Insecurity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a looong one. But it seemed silly to split it up, so... here it is. Feel free to let me know what you think!

Tessa knew when she made the deal with Bruce that she’d likely regret it. Four weeks off. Who requests _four weeks_ off? Especially someone who had only been doing the job for a handful of months?

But… “This isn’t really my job,” he had told her. “I was just supposed to be helping you out. Remember?”

And then he went and helped her out again by signing off on her HR forms. So she couldn’t really say no. Besides, she’d done this job for almost four years on her own. Surely she could handle things around the compound for four measly weeks.

The only thing that she would really have to do while Bruce was away was keep the med floor stocked and up to code, and oversee any issues that might arise. Even with her otherwise hectic schedule – commuting to the city to check in at the lab there, going over the dozens of research proposals that had piled up on her desk while she was out, trying not to die in her Steve-led PT sessions – she should be able to handle things just fine.

But… wait.

This week marked the unofficial _graduation_ of the new tier two team. Everyone who made it through the extensive training and selection process was about to officially become Avengers support staff. Bucky, Natasha, and Steve had been huddled up in conference rooms all week trying to determine who would be put on what assignment. And once the determinations were made, each and every one of them had to undergo an extensive physical before being cleared for duty. Add to that delivering the large variety of vaccinations required for travel – Hepatitis A and B, Typhoid, Cholera, Yellow Fever, meningitis, and of course the flu shot – to a surprising number of full grown adults with a fear of needles, and Tessa’s first week back from Seattle was, well, shot.

“You should’ve already gotten these before you went to Africa last month,” she snipes at Sam after giving him a final jab. “Just be glad I’m not forcing the rabies vaccine on you too.”

“Rabies?!” he exclaims, frowning as he rubs his tender arm.

She tosses the needle and snaps off her gloves. “It’s recommended for travel to Nigeria.” He gives her a rather uncharacteristic wide-eyed look of terror and she immediately feels a pang of regret. “It’s fine,” she sighs out, waving her hand dismissively as she leans heavily back onto the counter in the small exam room. Her crutches are propped up in the corner, where they’ve been stowed all day. The close quarters made it easy enough for her to maneuver around the room without them, but after hours of doing so, the constant, dull ache in her leg has turned into a piercing, radiating pain that has her more than a bit on edge. “It’s probably fine.”

“Probably?” he asks, still tensely seated on the exam table. “How _probably_?”

“Sam,” she says shaking her head. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Forget I said anything.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to forget about _rabies_ ,” he says, finally sliding off the table. He glances over at her and notes the visible wince she makes as she shifts her weight. His shoulders drop and relax a bit as he gives her a her a curious look. “How many more of these you got?” he asks casually.

“Just one,” she says with a sigh. Then, glancing down at the list on her tablet, “Sarah Atkinson.”

His eyes brighten and he shoots her a mischievous wink. “Atkinson, huh? Alright. Just let the girl down easy.” She wrinkles her forehead, giving him an utterly perplexed look. “Barnes didn’t tell you?” he asks, knowing smile growing wider as he speaks. “She’s his biggest fan.”

Her brow furrows even deeper. “Fan?”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “That girl is crushing _hard_ on your man.” He sees a sudden frown wrap itself around her face and a sort of dejected gloom spread through her gaze. “Of course,” he starts, laugh quickly dying out, “He’s pretty oblivious, so he might not have even noticed.”

There’s a sudden knock at the door and Claire peeks her head in to announce, “Your next patient is here,” before quickly disappearing back into the hall.

Sam clears his throat uncomfortably. “Forget I said anything,” he tells her with a soft smile. “I was just joking around.”

She gives him a conciliatory grin of her own as she hops over to the door and swings it open for him. “Just don’t pet any dogs or get close to any wildlife over there,” she directs with a smirk.

He tries to hide his stricken expression from Atkinson as she crosses in front of him to enter the exam room. “Don’t let her talk to you about rabies,” he mutters to her as she passes.

“Um, okay.”

Tessa extends her hand to the small blonde, an oddly put-on smile pulling at her lips. “Hi, I’m Dr. Sullivan.”

“Sarah Atkinson,” the woman replies, reaching out and offering a firm handshake, one that belies a strength and confidence that far outweighs her size. “I was told to just come in,” she says, indicating behind her as though Claire was still looming at her side. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Tessa waves a dismissive hand. “No. No, it’s fine. We were all done.” She blows out a long sigh. “So,” she turns around to grab her tablet and pulls up the woman’s chart. “Sarah Atkinson. 28 Years old,” she reads off the screen in front of her.

“That’s me,” she chimes.

Scrolling through the chart on the screen, she says, “Your stress test was good. No injuries or chronic issues. Looks like you have a clean family history. And no known medical conditions.”

“Nope,” she offers. “I run five miles a day – weekdays. I give my joints a break on the weekends and just swim. And I don’t eat any refined sugar or red meat.”

“Sounds like an awful way to live,” she mumbles under her breath before swinging her head up to look at the woman. “Drink?”

“Maybe once a week. I’ve been keeping it to a minimum while training. It’s been pretty intensive.”

She nods. “Yeah, I’ve heard. I do not envy you guys.”

“It’s not that bad,” she says with a shrug. “And worth it for an opportunity like this. I mean, I saw some action in my last job – ATF. But to have the opportunity to work with the Avengers Initiative? That’s a dream come true.”

The side of Tessa’s mouth quirks up into a crooked smile. “It’s a pretty good team,” she confirms with a nod.

“Someone mentioned that you’re the lead physician,” she starts, an inquisitive note to her voice. “I’ve only ever seen Dr. Jessup. And I’ve met Dr. Mattingly, of course… we trained with her team for a bit. And everyone knows about Dr. Banner,” she finishes with a nervous smile. “I was actually really looking forward to meeting him.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Tessa mutters.

“No, not at all. I’m glad to meet you,” she says with a cock of her head and a curiously unreadable expression.

Her face may relay nothing, but Tessa can sense a sort of antagonism in her energy. Well hidden, perhaps, but the hostility is there none the less, just barely bubbling beneath the surface. “ATF, huh?” she breathes out, working to distract herself from the uncomfortable energy. “Did that help prepare you for all this?” She turns around to grab her stethoscope and hobbles over to the exam table.

“It did,” she issues out quickly. Then, glancing down at Tessa’s braced leg, she asks, “What happened there?”

“Take a deep breath,” she tells her as she presses the icy stethoscope to her back. A small smile quirks when she feels the woman jolt at her touch. She listens intently to a perfect sounding heart, perfect sounding lungs, as she directs her breathing. “I was in a motorcycle accident,” she states once she’s done.

“Oh, wow,” Atkinson mutters simply. “I’ve never ridden. There’s always been enough danger in my job, I guess.”

Tessa frowns over at her. “Well, if my fiancé has his way, I’ll probably never ride again anyway.”

The look on Sarah Atkinson’s face is almost cartoonish, so round are her wide-open, shocked eyes. Her jaw drops to the point where it almost appears to be unhinged. “You… you’re… engaged?” she stutters out.

Tessa stifles a laugh, more than pleased that she somehow managed to break through the trained emotionlessness of the agent. She turns away and scoots back over to the counter to prepare the vaccinations. “Yeah,” she says casually, biting back a smile. She jabs a needle into one of the vials, a bit more forcefully than needed.

Atkinson gathers herself quickly. “Congratulations,” she says, voice now sounding steady and confident. “Does your fiancé know what you do?” Tessa turns around to face her and cocks her head questioningly. “Working for the Avengers,” she explains. “I imagine it can be hard finding someone who sees you for you and not just… a way to meet celebrities.”

Tessa scoffs loudly as she retrieves an injection. “ _Celebrities_. The only celebrities around here are a hundred-year-old man who blushes whenever a woman smiles at him and a fifty-year-old billionaire who can’t help _but_ smile at every woman he sees.” She holds up the needle for Sarah to see. “Hepatitis,” she states. Then, just before slipping the needle into the woman’s arm, “Don’t tell Tony I called him _fifty_.”

She watches carefully as the injection is given, then looks up at the doctor. “Mr. Stark, you mean?”

“Yes. Mr. Stark.”

Atkinson inclines her head curiously as Tessa whips back around, tosses one needle and prepares another. “And Captain Rogers?”

She turns and leans heavily into the counter for a moment as a sharp pain radiates through her leg. “Yeah,” she says with a small wince.

“Because Sergeant Barnes is a hundred years old too, isn’t he?” she asks, the guarded, unreadable expression returning to her face.

Tessa gingerly tests a little bit of weight on her leg before stepping back over with the next syringe. “Yellow Fever,” she says, raising the needle in front of her.

The sharp poke seems to go all but unnoticed by the petite blonde. “He doesn’t move like a hundred-year-old man,” she hums out. “That’s for sure.”

“Well, he is a super soldier,” Tessa mutters just before, “Ah, dammit,” ekes out of her in a pained gasp as she steps down a bit too sharply. Her leg nearly buckles and Atkinson jumps up to assist her, holding her shoulder steady with one hand as she reaches out to grab the wheeled stool off to the side with the other. “Thanks,” Tessa mumbles as she slides down onto the seat.

Sarah looks down at her with a small smile and a hint of teasing in her eye. “He’s your fiancé, right?” Tessa doesn’t respond, merely scrunches her brow as she watches the woman’s expression change from cagey to amused, her energy losing that sharp edge and instead taking on a sort of quiet confidence. “No one seems to know anything for sure,” she hums conspiratorially. “Just rumors.” Then, with a shrug, “Guess the Sarge isn’t big on people knowing about his personal life.”

“Yeah,” Tessa breathes out, gaze dropping as she leans over to absently rub her throbbing shin. “Well… yeah. James is my fiancé. But I guess… if he doesn’t want people to know…” She shrugs evasively before turning and collecting another syringe and vial from the countertop. “I have a few more immunizations to give you,” she says, her tone suddenly matter of fact. “And the last one’s going to hurt.”

000

Natasha had been at it all day – running drills with the newbies this morning, walking Sam and Wanda through the expectations for the Lagos assignment, arguing with Bruce from afar about whether or not she’d be able to meet up with him in Argentina for a quick getaway next week. So when she hears an insistent knock that evening, she’s about ready to open her door just wide enough to toss out a widow’s bite and hope it hits the mark.

But when she does crack the door, she’s met with what might just be the saddest, most over-the-top pathetic expression she’s ever seen in her life. And for someone who spends as much time with Bruce Banner as she does, that’s saying something. “What is it?” she asks with a resigned sigh, swinging the door open wide.

Tessa shifts her weight, leaning heavily on those damn crutches, and gives her friend a mighty pout. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

She looks her dead in the eye, no change to her expression. “You’re pretty.”

Tessa nods – “Thank you.” – and hobbles over to the couch. She drops down and awkwardly props her leg up on the coffee table before settling back into the cushions with a sigh. “I just spent all day running physicals on people who are in the best shape of _anyone’s_ life… and two of them were quite possibly the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Present company excluded.”

Natasha gives an irreverent snort in reply and disappears into the kitchen.

“I mean, you and Wanda – _that_ tall drink of water – I’m used to you two sucking up all the sex appeal around here. But now this?!” She throws up her arms in defeat and lets out a pained huff.

“You’re an idiot,” Nat says as she reenters the room, carrying two glasses of red wine. Tessa perks up immediately, thrusting out a waiting hand. “One glass,” she tells her with a raised warning brow before gingerly handing the wine over. She moves to the opposite side of the couch and folds her legs delicately beneath her as she sits. “What’s with you?”

She shrugs and takes a sip of wine. Her face immediately contorts as she glares down at the glass. “Is this my Bordeaux?” She takes another drink. “Chateau Lafite,” she offers with an almost disgusted nod. Natasha just gives her a crooked grin, and Tessa rolls her eyes. “James gave this to you?”

“I saved it until you came over,” she says with a shrug. “Most of it.”

“Did he give you everything?” she asks, the same anger she felt days ago upon finding her wine and liquor all cleaned out quickly bubbling to the surface.

“Well, he couldn’t exactly throw it out.” She takes a long sip, lets the wine linger on her tongue before stating, “It’s good stuff.”

“Yeah, I know,” she announces. “It’s an eight-hundred dollar bottle.”

Nat nearly spits the wine out, choking in surprise. She sputters briefly before, “You’re shitting me?”

Tessa shifts uncomfortably and glares at the woman to her left. “This whole ‘trying to keep me from drinking’ thing, it’s really starting to piss me off. For the record – and I really shouldn’t have to say this – I’m not a fucking child.” She over-enunciates the final words to bitterly drive home her point.

But instead of getting the hoped-for apology from Natasha, she gets a dismissive shrug and a, “Just trying to help.”

“I want the bottle back,” she says with a bit of venom.

“If I let you have it, will you tell me what’s going on?” Tessa gives her a confused look. “ _Tell me I’m pretty_ ,” she repeats in a mocking voice.

She just shakes her head and emits a small, tired laugh before groaning. “I just feel… _blech_ ,” she says with a sigh. “And then Sarah Atkinson comes in – looking all cute and hot and blonde – and telling me about how she doesn’t eat red meat and she runs five miles a day.” She leans forward and connects eyes with Natasha, gives her a very serious, very meaningful stare. “Who says something like that to a cripple?”

“You’re not a cripple,” she states simply. “And who cares about some second stringer anyway?”

Tessa’s gaze drops to her lap, her tone changing into something utterly childlike as she says, “James, probably.”

The wine glass stills halfway to Natasha’s mouth. She knew, of course, could plainly see that this Atkinson had the hots for her Sergeant. Hell, they all had been poking fun at him about it for weeks now. But… “Barnes is completely devoted to you,” she utters, her voice soft and sincere. “You know that.”

She shrugs, refusing to look up. “She’s his type,” she mutters absently.

Nat’s brow furrows, her eyes narrowing as she asks, “He told you that?”

“No,” she shakes her head and lets out a long sigh before finally meeting her friend’s gaze. “Steve used to tell me stories – just after he came out of the ice – about him and his best friend, Bucky Barnes. I think it really helped him to be able to sort of _relive_ the good old days. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “But he said that Bucky always had a cute blonde on his arm, some little thing he could whip around the dance floor.”

Natasha lets out a disgusted grunt. “Bucky Barnes sounds like a douche.”

A quick giggle spills through Tessa’s lips before she emits a long and labored sigh. “I know,” she mutters softly. “I know it’s dumb. We’re good. He’s… _great_. And it’s different. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever been with.” She pauses, her face wrinkling up in thought. “But…”

“But you’re feeling a little insecure right now,” Nat supplies, only a hint of a question to her voice as she leans forward and lightly taps on Tessa’s raised, braced leg.

The absurdly pathetic frown rolls back in. “I don’t feel pretty,” she mumbles dejectedly, pulling the smallest laugh from her friend. She draws in a deep, cleansing breath and gives Natasha a furtive look. “If I tell you something,” she starts hesitantly, “you have to promise not to give me that… judgey pity stare.”

Natasha pulls back. “What are you talking about?”

“That stare,” she explains, one insistent brow raised. “The one you give when someone says something that makes you just oh-so-sad for them. But you don’t want them to know that you pity them, so you try to hide the look. Only you overcompensate and just end up looking entirely judgmental. The _judgey pity stare_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she tells her as she brings her glass back up to her lips.

“Liar,” she utters, catching the amused spark in the redhead’s eye.

Natasha huffs and gives her a tired look. “Just tell me.”

“Fine,” she relents suddenly, her face morphing into a stony expression, already bordering on defensive. “Every man I’ve ever been with has cheated on me.” She watches Natasha, stares at her long and hard, just waiting for her reaction. It takes no more than a moment for her to see the _stare_ roll over her features. “That!” she exclaims, pointing vehemently at Nat’s face. “That’s the look.”

“This isn’t pity,” she defends. “It’s _pure_ judgement.”

“Well that makes me feel much better,” she mutters, the words nearly lost in her wine glass as she takes another sip.

Natasha leans forward and sets her glass down on the coffee table before leveling Tessa with a disappointed glare. “You are too damn smart to let someone do that to you. Anyone. Let alone _everyone_.”

Tessa nods, her gaze drifting as an almost shameful blush begins to pepper her cheeks. “I told you before, I have terrible taste in men. Or… had.”

She cocks her head to the side, unfazed by the feeble argument. “You’re also too damn smart not to realize that Barnes would _never_ do that to you.”

“No,” she responds, her voice sounding almost wistful, certainly not sharp and decisive like she had intended for it to come out. “I _do_ know.” Then, with a sad shrug, “I do _think_.”

“Tessa,” she sighs out. “He just asked you to marry him.”

She nods. “I know. I _know_. But…” she pauses briefly and begins to chew on the inside of her cheek as she loses herself in thought. “Cal said he wanted to marry me too,” she says finally, a hint of despondency to her voice. “We actually made it to the justice of the peace one time.” Her face screws up in thought for a long moment as she mutters lightly, “I think it was in Canada,” before quickly waving a dismissive hand through the air. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

A pensive expression takes over Natasha’s face as she looks at her friend. “It sounds like you _do_ remember,” she points out, the insinuation ringing clear in Tessa’s head. She now remembers a lot of things that she didn’t before. “These other men… did you remember them? Before you started working with Xavier?”

Tessa rolls her eyes and lets out an irritated huff before downing the rest of her wine. “I don’t know,” she spits out, awkwardly leaning forward to set down her glass. But with her unyielding leg propped on the coffee table, she can’t quite reach.

Nat reaches over to take the glass and deposits it on the table for her. “I’ve never known you to be this… self-doubting.”

“Well,” she says, grimacing as a bolt of pain shoots through her leg when she reclines back. “You really haven’t known me that long.”

She considers that for a moment. It’s true, she’s really only known Tessa for a few years. And lately, since discovering what was done to her, they’ve all begun to wonder if the woman they’ve come to know is even the _real_ Tessa at all. She gives a quick shake of her head, tossing those doubts aside. “You are a brilliant, funny, talented, beautiful woman,” she says suddenly, the soft words imbued with a sort of tenacity. “And you _are_ confident. You are, and you have every right to be.”

The corner of Tessa’s mouth perks up into a crooked smile. “Are you going to write that down and make me repeat it to myself every morning?”

“If I have to,” she hums, casually leaning back into the arm of the couch. “You really have nothing to worry about,” she states. “Not with Atkinson or anyone else.”

She nods slowly, doubt still churning through her mind. “He didn’t tell her about me,” she issues out in a small voice. “He never said anything about me.” She looks up at Natasha, a sad uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “He’s been working with them for months.”

Nat shrugs. “We don’t talk about our personal lives. None of us do.” She raises an almost accusing brow. “ _You_ never told any of us that you two were dating. You know how much recon Clint and I had to do in those first few months?”

She snorts out a sarcastic laugh. “We weren’t exactly sneaking around.”

“Bullshit,” she snarks. “Barnes _literally_ snuck in and out of your office every day for a week.” She huffs out an amused breath. “No wonder you had to throw out that old futon.”

She cracks a small smile and thinks back to those first few months with James. It’s true, they didn’t really tell anyone that they were a _thing_. But that was also because it was so new and so… difficult to explain. He had only _just_ started feeling like – and acting like – a real person again, rather than a traumatized shell of a man. And she was a single-minded, workaholic who barely seemed to have time for friends, let alone dating. They both knew that everyone in the Tower was on to them… all of the curious glances and the loaded questions. But neither could quite muster the energy to explain this _thing_ that even they didn’t fully understand.

Tessa’s gaze drops to her lap, her tone almost sheepish when she says, “I’m just worried that I’m not really what he wants.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” Natasha issues out without any hesitation. She rises from the sofa and saunters back into the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of wine. “He chose you,” she tosses over her shoulder as she goes.

Tessa shrugs. “Maybe he just doesn’t realize it yet… that I’m not the _one_.”

Natasha scoffs as she shuffles back in and pours the Bordeaux, handing off one of the refilled glasses. “There’s no such thing as the _one_. What are you, twelve?” she asks, plopping down beside her. “You know what this is,” she says, turning a knowing glare on Tessa. “This isn’t you being insecure. This is you spiraling.”

Her forehead furrows, brows tugging together in confusion.

“Barnes loves you. You love him. You’ve made it through some real shit, and now you’re coming out the other side… still in love… still together. You’re _engaged_.” She raises both brows reproachfully. “But you just can’t let yourself be happy.”

Tessa pulls in a sharp breath and frowns. “That’s not true.”

“It’s absolutely true,” she tells her with a guileful smile and a wink. Her face falls a bit then, a somberness tugging at her features as she takes a long, lingering sip of her wine. “We all do it,” she says softly. “Wait for the bottom to drop out.” Her eyes flick back over to Tessa and she forces a soft smile. “And eventually, it probably will.”

“Not exactly comforting.”

“The point is that, thinking about all the ways it might happen, that’s not gonna prevent it. And it probably won’t help you prepare for it either. It’ll just leave you a pathetic, nervous mess.”

“Is this your _qeu sera sera_ moment?” she asks with a quirked brow.

A small laugh spills from Natasha’s parted lips as she looks down into the half-full glass in her hand. “Live in the now,” she mutters softly before reconnecting eyes with Tessa. “It’s all any of us are ever going to get.”

000

It’s already well past eight by the time she makes it home, huffing out an exhausted sigh as she steps through the door. “Hey,” Bucky greets from the couch. “Thought I was gonna have to send out a search party.” He’s bent over the coffee table, scribbling into a notebook as he continues to reference the tablet in his hand.

The corner of her mouth quirks up into an amused grin as she watches him hurriedly transcribe something from the _untrustworthy_ piece of technology in his hand onto the tried-and-true paper in front of him. “I was at Nat’s,” she says, lumbering over to stand beside him. She leans the crutches up against the wall and looms for a moment, trying to stretch out the still aching leg. She downed a pain pill along with her final glass of wine – while Natasha was out of the room, of course – but it hasn’t yet started to kick in. “You gave her my wine,” she says, slowly butting her legs up against his.

He doesn’t look up at her, simply replying with, “Yeah.” She nudges him harshly with her knee, causing his pen to slip and his gaze to finally meet hers. “Her apartment is the locked liquor cabinet and she’s the key.” He shrugs and turns back to his work. “Seemed like a good plan.”

“Seems like you don’t trust me,” she intones, still looming.

“You’re the one who said, _if it’s here, I’m drinking it_.”

She scoffs loudly and protests, “That was a joke.”

He sets down his pen and looks up at her with a dour expression. “You were halfway through a bottle when you said it.”

She rolls her eyes and collapses onto the couch beside him. “It was after a rough day at work,” she mutters, leaning her head onto his shoulder and peering curiously at the tablet in his hand.

“Yeah? That what today was too?” he asks before scrolling back to the top of the page. It looks like a schedule of some sort, newly recognizable names – now that she’s officially met everyone on the support team – peppering the document. He flicks his finger quickly along the screen, making tweaks to the lineup.

Her gaze lingers on one name in particular, the first he one he selects – _Atkinson_. “I met your team,” she hums out softly, quickly turning away from the tablet and instead popping her chin upright on top of his metal shoulder.

“My _team_ ,” he says with a rather indelicate snort. Then, flipping off the tablet and tossing it onto the table, he asks with a tired sigh, “Everybody pass their physical?” before leaning back and slowly maneuvering his arm around her. She responds by curling further into his side.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, looking down at her fingers as she begins to nervously tug and pull at them.

He notices the tick and gently drops his right hand over the top of hers to keep her from pulling at her fingers. “Something happen?” he asks, sensing her anxiety.

She releases a long sigh and thinks on what to say. “Are you sure you want to marry me?” is somehow what she settles on.

He pulls back just a bit and gives her a quizzical look. “Pretty sure, yeah,” he says, small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why? You having second thoughts?” He asks the question lightly, teasingly, but she can feel the undercurrent of emotion that bubbles up inside of him – the fear, the doubt.

She pushes off of him and sits upright, gazes into his eyes with a thoughtful expression. “I don’t tell you enough, do I?” she asks, her voice soft, even a bit timid.

He cocks his head curiously. “Tell me what?”

“How much I love you,” she replies, a gloomy haze dulling the green of her eyes. “How important you are to me. How much I need you. _Want_ you.” It wasn’t something she had even really considered until just this moment. Not until feeling his uncertainty, did it occur to her that he might be unsure of how she feels. That, unlike Bucky – with his often uttered affirmations of _I love you_ ; his candid declarations of _you’re so beautiful, so amazing_ ; his longing utterances of _baby, sweetheart, doll_ – she may not be telling him… _showing_ him in absolute terms.

She leans in and presses her lips to his, hard and insistent. She can feel his hesitation, his concern and confusion, but he opens up to her just the same, letting her tongue sweep across his teeth as she moans softly into him. The kiss seems to go on forever, a deep passion building between their parted lips. When she finally pulls away and utters a timid, “I’m sorry,” a phantom ache is left to linger in her chest.

His brow furrows as he shakes his head. “What are you sorry for?” But her response is simply to look away and frown. “Baby,” he says, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting her face so that she’ll meet his gaze. “You tell me all the time.”

She shakes her head almost despondently, and all at once the frustrated tears she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding onto begin to pool in her eyes. “But it’s not enough. It’s just _words_ ,” she mutters, her voice nearly breaking at the end. The look of utter distress in his clear blue eyes causes her to almost choke on a slowly building sob. “It’s not,” she ekes out, shutting her eyes tightly.

His hand comes to rest in her hair, his fingers gently weaving their way into the thick, dark waves as his thumb lazily traces along her temple. “Tessa,” he says, serious, commanding note to his voice. “What’s going on?”

She shakes her head dismissively and keeps her eyes pinched firmly shut. “I don’t doubt you,” she says softly, more to herself. “I really don’t.”

“Okay,” he mutters, even more bewildered than before.

Her breath hitches as she sighs. “Every time you say you love me… every time you touch me… I can _feel_ it. I can feel…” She stops and looks up at him, stares at him through bleary eyes. “Love. And fear. And… apprehension. Desire. And hope. Passion and… joy.” She releases a bitter laugh. “Those are all just _words_ … I can’t… I can’t explain it.” She release a frustrated huff and angrily swipes at the tears that have fallen onto her cheeks. “I just…” She looks up at him longingly, reaches up with both hands and takes hold of his face, inches just a bit closer and then leans her forehead to his. “I wish you could feel how you make me feel. I wish you could know.”

He releases a long sigh, breathing into her before shifting just enough to lay a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. “I do feel it, baby,” he whispers into the small space between them. “Maybe not like you do, but I feel it.”

Her hands slowly move back, fingers getting lost in his hair, twisting and tugging, as she leans in and kisses him. It starts out soft and tender… a gentle yearning. But it doesn’t take long for each of them to begin pawing, nearly clawing at the other in desperation.

_Maybe he really does feel me_ , she thinks. He must, because he obviously knows how frantic she is right now to be near him, with him. His metal hand slides up her shirt, sending a wild shiver throughout her body as the pads of his fingers slowly trace along her spine.

The sensation directs a deep shudder down to her core, a blissful jolt that has her writhing. She lets her lips part from his and he takes the opportunity to tug her down a bit on the sofa so that she’s lying beneath him. He lets out a low growl as he pulls her close and nuzzles into her neck. She cranes her head down just slightly, a new desire washing over her. “I can…” she starts, a breathless whisper in his ear. “I want to do something.”

He doesn’t respond with words, just nods harshly against her as he pulls her back into his open, waiting mouth. Their teeth smack together, another small but sudden shock. And she smiles wide, even as their lips mingle.

He doesn’t want to let her go. That’s plainly obvious, as he presses his left hand to her lower back, thrusting her closer to him. But she parts from him just the same, just enough to be able to look into his lust-blown eyes. “Do you trust me?” she asks.

Without any hesitation, he hurriedly issues out, “Course I do,” and tangles his flesh-and-bone fingers into her hair to pull her back to him.

There’s an odd sort of warmth that begins pool between them, a strange and captivating energy that – for all their fevered lovemaking – he’s never felt from her before. He pulls back slightly and looks down at her, and he sees that something in her eyes has changed. Whereas just a moment ago, her pupils were blown wide with desire, now they’re narrowed to near pinpoints. And her deep green irises almost appear to be shimmering blue. His brows twist in confusion, but only briefly. When she offers a wide smile – both playful and somehow reassuring – he suddenly loses sight of everything save the feel of her hot, slick skin beneath his metal palm and her sharp hips pressing into his.

He reaches down to undo his pants, the discomfort of being strangled by his jeans no longer bearable. But he feels her fingers wrap tightly around his before he can finish with his fly. There, between their pressed-together bodies, she grips his hand and sends a shot of ecstatic energy through him. He feels it first as a slow burning hum in his fingertips. Then it rapidly picks up pace and reverberates up his arm. It’s an odd electrical sort of pulse, but… so much more than that. It quickly whirrs throughout his entire body, creating a low hum in his ears and a thrumming in his chest… and an aching in his gut like he’s never felt before.

He can’t describe it. There are no words.

But he knows that he needs her _now_.

Clothes are torn and thrown to the floor, across the room. He’s barely cognizant of a crash that sounds when he kicks _something_ off of the coffee table to his right. Her breath hitches when he enters her, cutting off the deep moan that had been rising in her throat. He feels her nails dig into his back, splitting the skin as he thrusts into her.

His muscles are all sharp and contracted, like every single piece of his body is focused on the same heavenly goal. Yet there’s also a glorious sort of calm in his core, like sunshine warming him from the inside out. He can’t explain any of it, but when he shifts his head up to look into her eyes... when he sees the blue shimmer dancing over them, through them, bouncing off of them… he’s certain that whatever that unnamable force is, it’s dancing inside of him as well.

“How do you feel?” she asks him when it’s all over, when he’s done and spent and laying in a heavy, sweaty heap atop her.

He smiles softly, resting his forehead on her collarbone. The steady warmth continues to grow inside of him, even as the flickering sort of electricity begins to fade. He lets out a quick, sharp laugh and replies, “Like I’m buzzing.”

Her heavy lids fall shut from exhaustion. Sharing energy like that… even just putting it out there, let alone maintaining the flow… it has her utterly wiped. But through her tired, slowing breaths, she emits a  slight chuckle, one that he feels reverberate through her chest. He can almost sense the bright, wide smile that spreads across her face as she softly utters, “That’s how you make me feel.”


	10. Acceptance

“I should’ve been there,” she repeats once more. It’s all she can say. It’s all she can think. “Together, Wanda and I could’ve –”

“Stop it,” he interrupts sharply. Tessa’s lips press tightly together as she looks over at Bucky’s blank face. His eyes slowly veer over to meet hers, fatigue and frustration darkening the light blue of his irises. “There was no reason for you to be there,” he says with a sigh. “Sometimes missions go sideways. Shit happens.”

She gives a firm nod, agreeing that he’s right, even as a voice in the back of her head works to convince her otherwise. There _was_ a reason for her to be in Lagos. Maybe it wasn’t apparent at the time. Maybe at the time, they all thought that the op was going to be a fairly standard recon mission… just get a bead on Rumlow and his team, see what they’re up to, and move on it from there. Maybe there was no reason to think that she would be needed, or could even be of any help.

But now? Seeing the devastation left in the wake of their _sideways mission_ … now, it seems plainly obvious that there had been a reason for Tessa to go along.

She huffs out a frustrated breath, dropping her head to her hands. “We should’ve still been working,” she mutters into her open palms. “We should’ve still been… training together.” She lifts her head and gazes mournfully at him. “Her powers are still so new. I’ve should’ve been helping her… hone them. Practice.” She rises quickly and begins to clumsily pace the room on her crutches. “I knew… I _knew_ that she still had trouble controlling things when under pressure. She barely has any experience in the field. And that blast,” she exclaims, spinning towards him so fast that she nearly knocks herself off balance. “It was too strong. She just didn’t have the practice, the experience…”

Bucky continues to sit idly on the sofa, elbows resting heavily on his knees as he watches her pace and fret. “Maybe,” he says with a weary shrug. “Doesn’t really matter now.”

It’s pointless to discuss, that’s what he’s trying to say.

He has his own guilt about the deadly explosion in Lagos. He hadn’t gone on the op, was actually barred from going by Steve, who was afraid to let Bucky anywhere near Brock Rumlow. But he’d been part of the debriefs over the last day and a half, knew the story of what happened well enough to know that, whether he’d been there or not, he still played a part. For one thing, Rumlow never would’ve become this Crossbones mercenary terrorist if it hadn’t been for the Winter Soldier’s siege in DC. And for another, Steve never would’ve let the bomb vest Rumlow was wearing go unnoticed had the asshole not started spouting off about being part of his torture machine.

But just because he had inadvertently played a role in the disaster didn’t mean he was to blame for it any more than she was for not being able to see into the future to know that she _could’ve_ helped prevent it.

Tessa’s frazzled pacing stops, and she watches – concern in her eyes – as he falls back into the couch with a deflated sigh. “Why don’t you stay here?” she offers, voice calm and soft.

He raises a questioning brow. “I don’t know,” he mutters, tone hesitant. He’d taken her to every session with Xavier for the past couple of months. Every Saturday morning, they’d ridden side by side in utter silence to the school, parting ways at the door – her heading into the Professor’s study, him being lured away to whatever activity her family had planned.

He had made a guest appearance for Kitty’s class, fielding questions about what it was like to live through the Great Depression and to fight in World War II. And to grow up without the internet. He had spent one Saturday, rather reluctantly, helping Logan rebuild and restore a 1941 Indian Scout bike. “This is probably the nicest thing you’ll ever lay your grimy hands on,” the Wolverine had told him harshly. “You break _anything_ , I’ll break your neck.” And he had whiled away hours with Storm and others going over the info they had accumulated on Lobe and his people, limited though it was.

If he were to be completely honest, well, it was kind of a lot. Through every visit he’d been regaled with stories and memories of Tessa – _Nova, Anna_. And he’s grateful for it. In just those handful of visits with her family and friends, he had learned more about her past than in their nearly three years together.

He now knows, for example, that though she’d always been a brilliant student, she was also a real button pusher, prone to challenging the dictates of _every_ teacher she’d ever had. She talked back in class, interrupted lessons to offer her _superior_ two cents, and earned her fair share of detentions along the way. But she also came to her teachers – her family members and teammates – after nearly every incident with tears in her eyes and a sincere apology on her lips.

He also knows that she stole her brother’s motorcycle and ran away from home four different times. She dated someone named John who caught her bed on fire one night in the _heat_ of passion – a tale that has since reached legend status among the students at Xavier’s. He knows that, as good as she was at getting herself into trouble – and according to the X-Men, she was quite good at that – her most favorite thing to do was to sit quietly in the giant lab downstairs and listen to Hank McCoy lecture as he demonstrated for her the work that would one day become her passion.

Yes, he is grateful to know all of these things. But it’s hard to hear about the woman he loves – the woman he, up until a few months ago, thought he knew better than anyone – from strangers. Truth be told, it makes him feel like _she_ is a stranger.

But he has to go with her to her session today. No matter how uncomfortable it might make him, he has to go. That’s the deal they made. They’re in this together.

She flops heavily onto the couch beside him and lays her head on his shoulder. “You’ve got your hands full here,” she mutters softly, reaching out to twine her fingers with his. “Really. You should stay.”

It’s true, he does have his plate full. Now that the Avengers’ debriefing on Lagos is over and done, it’s time to sit down with the support team and run mission reports with them. Even just last night’s prep for those run-throughs bled well into the early morning hours, preventing him from getting any more than a few hours of sleep. He runs a tired hand over his face, reluctance still biting at his core. “You can’t drive yourself,” he tells her simply.

She leans away from him and rolls her eyes dramatically. “I _can_ , actually.” He gives her an impatient look and she releases a tired sigh of her own. “Wanda,” she states definitively, earning her a confused grimace from the man by her side. She shifts beside him, her brows pulling together in a troubled countenance. “She’s… struggling. I think… I think it might be good for her to talk to someone _like_ her. Or several _someone_ s.” She smiles lightly at him, cocking her a head a bit as she says, “And she can drive me.”

A thoughtful look takes over his face, his expression slowly shifting from uncertain to… admiring. “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” he utters, light eyes shining with pride as he mirrors her grin.

000

The mansion’s kitchen alone is a sight to behold. Sprawling granite countertops, pristine hardwood floors, an entire wall of windows affording a view of the massive green grounds outside. Even the dining set that they sit at is crafted from an expensive-looking dark oak, thick and grand and intricately carved. Wanda can’t help but wonder if children really do live here. Between the immaculate gardens they passed on the way in, the large, uncluttered foyer they entered, and now this Tony Stark-level dream kitchen, it certainly doesn’t look like a place inhabited by dozens of careless and sticky little kids.

Tessa clears her throat beside Wanda at the table, pulling the young woman from her reverie. “When I was sixteen,” she starts, her eyes flicking wildly back and forth between Storm and Bobby. “I tried to drop a guy in the field.” She turns her gaze to Wanda, who’s sitting uncomfortably straight and still as she listens intently. “I’d done it dozens of times before – pull just enough energy out of someone that they lose consciousness.”

“She did it to me twice,” Bobby interjects with a smug smirk.

Tessa scoffs, glaring at him as he looms across the room. “You deserved it.”

He shakes his head lamentingly. “Hell of a headache.”

“The point,” Storm interrupts gently, “is that Tessa knew what she was doing then. She knew how her powers worked, how to control them. And yet, that time…”

“That time, I killed a man,” she says pointedly. Wanda’s shoulders slump forward as she flashes a stricken look. “Just… wiggled my fingers,” Tessa explains, raising her hand and jiggling her digits in front of her. “And killed a man.”

“Was that…” the young woman begins, stumbling a bit as she processes the story. “Was he…”

“Bad?” she finishes. Wanda nods, pressing her lips firmly together as she waits on the reply. Tessa shakes her head. “No. He was a security guard. New to the job. Not much older than you. We had to get into the building where he worked, and it was my job to take him out… put him to sleep.” She shrugs blithely. “I screwed up, and he paid the price.”

Storm looks at Tessa with placating eyes. “It was an accident. A terrible accident,” she corrects.

Wanda’s brows knit together as she looks into Tessa’s steadfast gaze. “Did you… was that… a memory that was hidden?” she asks, a bit unsure how to ask such an odd question. _Was that one of the things that your Professor friend made you forget when he built a wall in your head to keep you from knowing who you truly are?_

She shakes her head briefly. Then, forehead crinkling in confusion, she says, “Not sure why he left that one in there, actually.”

Storm leans back in her seat at the wide kitchen table. “Because the tragedies make us who we are just as much as the victories. More so, really.” She looks over at Wanda, her eyes soft and full of tenderness. “I know things are hard right now. I know that it feels like… like the world thinks you’re a monster.”

A small breath escapes the young woman as she gingerly ducks her head, averting her gaze. Tessa reaches her hand beneath the table and takes hold of Wanda’s fingers. “They’re wrong,” she tells her in no uncertain terms.

Bobby unfurls his arms from over his chest, and pushes off the wall in the corner where he’d been standing. “It’s easy for people to see us as monsters. When a _normal_ person loses control in the heat of the moment, maybe they say something they shouldn’t, break a vase, punch someone in the nose, wreck their car. We lose control, and people die. Sometimes just one,” he says looking over at Tessa before turning his kind eyes back to Wanda. “Sometimes dozens or more.”

Tessa gives her hand a quick squeeze under the table, brining her attention back to her. “You saved Steve’s life. And the lives of all the people on the ground around them. What you did… it wasn’t malicious.” She stares deeply into Wanda’s eyes, her gaze penetrating and determined. “You never intended to hurt anyone.”

“But I did,” she admits shyly.

“And you’ll have to live with that,” Storm tells her. “Just like we all do.”

Wanda pulls in a sharp breath, her mouth parting as though she’s about to speak, but no words come out. Tessa feels a dark, sad energy wash over her and it sends a sudden wave of nausea through her body. She releases her hand and rises quickly from the table, eager to get out of the room before Wanda’s unconfronted feelings cause her to puke in front of everyone. “I should find the Professor,” she utters, looking down at Wanda. “I won’t be too long. But…” Her eyes travel over to Storm, the resolute sharpness in them silently dictating that she take care of her friend.

Storm reaches out and pats Wanda’s other hand as it sits on the table in front of her. “We can talk,” she says with a smile. “We _should_ talk.”

“Okay,” Wanda says, nodding slowly. “Thank you. I… I think I’d like that.”

Tessa leaves the kitchen as fast as her crutches will carry her, which, granted, is a lot faster these days. She’s actually about ready to ditch the damn things entirely, save the times when she has to bounce back and forth between her office and different labs, all oddly positioned at opposite ends of never-ending hallways. But at times like these, when she’s just hobbling from one room to another, there hardly seems to be much need for them.

“Is that what your doctor thinks?” Xavier asks with a smirk as she enters his study.

She gives him a reprimanding look before twisting around to shut the door. “Thought we had an agreement,” she intones.

He laughs lightly. “You come here so that I _can_ get into your head.”

“Only once I say to,” she argues, flopping onto the stiff sofa opposite him.

He shrugs. “Your thoughts were nearly deafening. I didn’t realize how eager you were to get rid of the crutches.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of course I’m eager to get rid of them!” she nearly shouts, her unguarded enthusiasm pulling a smile from the Professor. “I’ve been their captive for months now. _Months._ ”

“Well,” he intones, drawing the word out. “There is something we could do… to achieve that.” She cocks her head curiously, narrowing her eyes. And again, he releases a small chuckle. “Perhaps you’re ready to try pulling some energy for your own purposes?”

She exhales a long, frustrated breath. “I just got finished talking about pulling so much from someone that I killed him. I’m not really in the mood to do more of that right now.”

He nods. “Ah, yes. You brought your friend… the enhanced one. I saw the things they’ve been saying about her on the news.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “It was good of you to bring her here. There’s not a person who enters these halls who hasn’t been lost, like she is. Sad. Afraid.” He sighs, long and drawn out. “Afraid of what they are. And what they may one day become.” He turns a gentle, comforting gaze on her. “She’s not alone in that fear.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about Wanda’s fear right now?”

The Professor had spent the last several weeks working to piece Tessa back together… joining all of the shards of who she once was with the fragments of who she now believes herself to be. It had been an arduous task for both of them, but he had done his best to make it… uncomplicated. Mostly painless.

When she was with him… when he dove inside her mind… it felt like he was simply beginning a conversation, taking her on a stroll down memory lane. He hadn’t torn away at her memories or her sense of self, hadn’t violently pulled back a curtain to reveal parts of her past she was ill equipped to confront. Rather he delicately plucked bits and pieces of her former self from the depths of her subconscious and placed them into the light so she could see.

The only problem was that, as he had already said multiple times over the course of their sessions, “I can make you _see_ the truth, but only you can accept it as such.”

Accept it… _That’s_ what caused all the pain.

The sessions themselves weren’t difficult at all. But the aftermath – the warring that went on inside of her as her mind worked to make sense of everything he showed her – that was, at times, too much to bear. Since beginning this whole process her migraines had worsened, both in frequency and intensity. And it only rarely occurred immediately following a session, which is why she suspected it was due to what _she_ was putting herself through after the fact and not anything that Xavier had done while in her head. Sometimes it was days later that she’d be struck by the sudden sensation of a storm brewing inside her skull.

She told Bucky it was because she was stressed out at work – so much catching up to do and so little time to do it. She told Tony it was just a side effect of her medication, never revealing just what meds she was even on. She told Natasha she might be allergic to the cat. She told the Professor nothing at all.

But then again, she didn’t have to tell him anything for understanding to bloom in his gaze.

“I’ve done all I can,” he tells her now, reaching out and pulling her hand into his. Tessa lets out a mighty sigh before turning her distracted gaze back to the man in front of her. “The rest is up to you, my dear,” he tells her with a soft, encouraging smile. “These memories are yours. _You_ must accept them as such.”

She nods, a forlorn glean to her eye. “I know. It’s just…” The nod stops suddenly and her head begins to whip side to side instead. “I _can’t_.”

Xavier tilts his head to the side as he studies her… this woman before him, this child he can still see running through the halls with a ponytail full of dark curls bouncing behind her. “Have you seen the things I’ve shown you?” he asks, the tenor of his voice dropping. She glares at him in annoyance, and he smiles lightly. “If you had paid attention to the things I’ve shown you – about yourself – then you would know that you absolutely _can_.”

She takes in his words, allowing the silence that follows to punctuate them with a sort of ringing clarity. She _had_ seen what he’d shown her. Everyday, over and over and over again. She’d been thinking about it all. Dreaming about it. Remembering it. But still it somehow all felt so foreign to her. “Some of it,” she starts, her brow furrowing as she thinks through exactly what to say. “Some of it is… easy. It feels natural. Just like… remembering. But some…” She lets out a long, pained sigh.

“You’re afraid,” he states, not even a hint of a question in his words.

She nods simply. “But it’s… _everything_.” He raises a brow and gives her a short nod, a command to go on. “I am afraid of who I am. I just told my friend that I killed a man – an innocent man – when I was _sixteen_.” Her countenance darkens as her gaze drops. “And Jean… look what I did to Jean.”

He shakes his head slowly. “What happened to Jean… your role in it… none of that was your _fault_. You did what you had to do.” He reaches out and takes her hand in his, squeezes it tightly. “You did what I asked you to do.”

She shrugs. “Maybe,” she goes on, almost evasively. “But my point is, I _am_ afraid of what my powers make me capable of. Sure. But I’m more afraid of… of… who I am inside.” She looks back up at him, her eyes almost pleading as she asks, “Am I a good enough person to be trusted with these powers?”

He very nearly laughs. “Yes, Anna. Yes, you are.”

She shakes her head sadly. “I don’t know. I’m not so sure.”

“This is why you’ve been so hesitant to use your gifts?” She gives him a perplexed look. “I know that for the last decade – since the wall was built – I know that you’ve been uncertain about whether you should use even the base powers you were left with. But _all_ of that which was hidden has been given back to you. Each and every lesson, all of the experience you gained… that’s all just waiting for you to accept it… to tap back in. All you need to do to use those powers now – _all_ of your accumulated powers – is to _trust yourself_.”

Again, her eyes shift uncomfortably away from his knowing gaze. “What if I do use them… and I’m able to control them… but… What if make the wrong choice?” she mutters, her voice so soft it comes out barely a whisper.

“You are human, my dear. At times, you will make the wrong choice. As do we all.” He watches as she pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and begins to nervously gnaw at the tender flesh. “What _choice_ is it that you’re grappling with now?” he asks, a confident lilt to his tone.

She looks back at him, only momentarily taken aback by his insight. A sardonic huff escapes her as she realizes quickly that he of all people would be able to see – with no effort at all – that something specific is on her mind. But a deep frown rolls over her face as she realizes that the choice she’s most afraid of making right now isn’t one she can mention to him at all. Because how can she tell this man who’s dedicated his entire life to helping mutants discover who they truly are – and learn to love who they are – that she soon will begin looking for a way to eradicate the gene that makes them all… who they are?

No. She can’t say anything about that to him. Not now. Not yet.

Her eyes drift off towards nothing as she instead works to pull at the threads of a certain oh-so-unpleasant memory that had been niggling at the back of her mind for a while now. “I remember,” she mutters softly, her thoughts veering back to his earlier suggestion. “I remember Logan being there… when I was bleeding.” She glances down at her hands, her wrists, stares long and hard at the pristine flesh, undamaged despite the blade that she _remembers_ dragging across it. All at once, her head flies up so that she can meet Xavier’s eyes. “How?” she asks with sudden urgency. “How did I do it?”

“You pulled his energy,” he explains simply. “His… life force. And you made it your own.” He shifts in his chair, watching her carefully. “Logan could recover from that, of course. Others might not. That is one gift you’d be wise to use sparingly.”

She looks away sadly. “So I was able to heal myself by… stealing from him.”

He nods.

She gazes ruefully down at her braced leg. “I can’t do that again. I wouldn’t want to hurt him,” she mutters absently.

“No, of course not,” he says with a small, crooked smile. “But I do know that Logan is more than willing to help.” She glances up at him with a quizzical frown. “He’s been asking when we could try after almost every visit.”

“Really?” she asks, wrinkling her brow. “He wants me to… drain his life force?”

He laughs heartily, the soft melodic sound causing her lips to curl into a reminiscent smile. “He wants you to be well,” he replies. “But I told him we needed to wait until you were ready. For his sake,” he finishes with a quirked and teasing brow.

“You think I could kill him?” she asks, tone playful despite the solemn look in her eye.

He releases a long, slow breath. “I’m certain of it,” he tells her, nodding somberly. “But I’m also certain, knowing that you have back what you need now, that you are ready to try this. You _can_ do this.” He leans back in his chair and gives her a clever grin. “Shall I bring him in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, after seeing Endgame yesterday, I'm so glad that everyone in this story is behind the times. Butting up against the turmoil of Civil War is nothing compared to what's coming...


	11. Running

Explaining to Wanda why it is that she no longer needs the crutches – how she can shuck off that miserable brace and stride unimpeded through the halls – is difficult enough. After all, the idea of healing one’s self is, well… batshit crazy. But add to that the fact that Tessa is positively _buzzing_ from the excess energy firing through her system, and it makes perfect sense why her attempt at an explanation comes across as… absolute nonsense.

She hadn’t planned on the steady hum in her ears, the odd whirring of her brain, the persistent thrumming in her chest. But being ten years out of practice had led her to overshoot – just a bit – when the pull began, leaving Logan pale, pained, and passed out in the Professor’s study.

But it isn’t just his energy coursing through her that has her bouncing around like an overly excited puppy. She had used powers that – up until recently – she never even knew she had. And she had managed to control them. Mostly. And in so doing, she now feels herself – for the first time since this all began – truly starting to _accept_ these powers that she’s been gifted.

And her leg is healed… she can walk!

So of course she’s excited. So excited, in fact, that – upon returning to her friends in the kitchen – she’s able only to emit tiny, indecipherable gleeful utterances. And she’s forced to rely on a _positively beaming with pride_ Professor Xavier to explain to them just what they had done.

The two hour car ride back to the compound does _nothing_ to quell her vigor, much to Wanda’s annoyance. The minute the car is put in park down in the garage, Tessa bolts for the elevator, bouncing rapidly on the balls of her feet as she waits for the irritated-looking young woman to join her.

“I know it won’t do any good,” Wanda sighs out as she presses the button for their floor. “But I’m going to tell you again to _calm down_.” She glances at her from her periphery, notes that the woman at her side almost seems to be vibrating with pent-up energy. “It’ll be easier for them to take if you can calmly explain.”

“What’s to take?” she asks with a snort. “I’m better. That’s good. I used my powers. That’s good. I didn’t kill Logan. That’s good.”

Wanda raises a single questioning brow. “Logan is nearly invincible, isn’t he?”

Tessa just shrugs and bounds out of the elevator the minute the doors part, making a beeline for her apartment across the hall. She fumbles with her keycard, her fingers trembling maniacally, and leaps back in surprise when the door swings open in front of her. “Oh shit,” she exclaims, hand dropping the card and leaping up to cover her heart. She looks up into Steve’s stunned face. “You scared me!”

“Yeah,” he utters, his own breath catching in his chest from the surprise. “Sorry about that.”

She shoves past him, grabbing onto his arm and spinning him back into the apartment as she makes her way in. He trips over his own feet, nearly tumbling into the sofa as she bounces around him. “Look!” she exclaims, dropping his arm and standing upright before him.

Bucky appears suddenly from the kitchen, his brow furrowed as he steps into the room and asks, “What the hell is going on?” She swings around to look at him, throwing her arms out wide and showing off a gleaming, self-satisfied smile. He frowns deeply in response. “Where are your crutches?” Then, an almost seething sort of anger bubbling from his words, “Where the hell is your brace?”

“Gone,” she breathes out. “I’m healed! All better.”

“What…” he starts, cocking his head to look past Tessa and over at Wanda, who’s now standing by Steve’s side. The young woman gives a tired shrug. “What do you mean, _all better_?”

“Well,” she starts, sounding more than a bit out of breath. “There’s still metal in there.” She leans over and harshly taps her left shin with two knuckles, causing Bucky to start towards her. “But the bones are all healed!” He swipes her hand away from her leg, eager to prevent her from doing any damage. “I still have just the one kidney, though,” she goes on, the words tumbling so fast from her mouth that they run into one another. “Can’t regrow organs. At least, I don’t think I can. I didn’t really try.” She gasps sharply. “What if I _can_ regrow organs! I could get a spare liver and drink all that I want!”

“Are you sure you’re not an alcoholic?” Wanda inquires from behind, a hint of sincerity to her voice. She lets out a huff upon seeing Bucky’s utterly confounded face – his wide eyes and wrinkled brow. His gaping mouth, just hanging open, waiting for words to come. “She used her powers to pull energy from Logan,” she explains slowly, ducking her head to meet Bucky’s eyes so that she can be sure he’s hearing her. “And she used that energy to heal her leg.”

Steve takes a step forward and drops his hand to Tessa’s shoulder. His voice is soft but commanding, a serious and official sort of inquiry. “Like how you healed after…”

She nods. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she spills out in a hurried breath. “But I’ve remembered so much. And I remembered doing it… sort of. And the Professor thought I was ready. And Logan really wanted to help. Though I think he ended up regretting it.”

Wanda gives Steve a weary look. “She took a bit too much of his energy, if you couldn’t tell. She’s been like this for hours.” She turns to watch, along with the two dumbfounded men, as Tessa brushes past all of them and bounds into the kitchen. She gets a glass of water and downs the entire thing in two huge gulps, then she begins doing deep lunges across the length of the kitchen. “When we left, Logan was passed out. Alive… but dead to the world,” she almost whispers, her eyes still closely following the antics of her friend in the other room. “Professor Xavier said he’d be fine. And she should calm down… eventually.”

Bucky shakes his head quickly, all of this information being just a bit too much to process. He steps into the kitchen and into Tessa’s path, grabbing her by the shoulders and hauling her upright. “You’re saying that your leg is healed?” he asks in a demanding tone. She shows a big bright grin and nods enthusiastically. “Completely healed?”

“You don’t believe me?” She sidles up close, wrapping her hands around his middle. “Wanna take me for a spin and test it out.”

He sighs and reaches around his back to unhook her arms. “No,” he tells her, frustration lacing the word. “No, I just want to know what’s going on.”

“She told you,” she says, voice high and a bit shrill as she throws up a hand and points to Wanda.

“You were supposed to have just another session with him, not a…” He throws up his hands in an annoyed gesture. “Not a workshop with your powers.” His brows draw tightly together as he looks down at her. “What if you hurt yourself?”

She shakes her head emphatically. “I _healed_ myself.”

“What if you hurt Logan?”

“ _Psh_. He can take it.”

“Baby,” he starts, a frustrated growl building in the back of his throat.

“I don’t think that Professor Xavier would have let her try if he thought that anything bad would happen,” Wanda interjects. “Everyone there seemed to have faith that she could manage just fine. Including Logan. And he was the one who was at risk.”

Tessa stares up at Bucky with big, round eyes. “You don’t have faith in me?”

He blows out an exasperated breath. “Of course I do. That’s not the point.”

“Have you done this before?” Steve asks suddenly, looming largely in the kitchen doorway. “Other than that one time?”

Tessa turns to look at him, notes his almost comical frown. “That one time I slit my wrists, you mean?” Steve’s eyes go wide and his shoulders drop in shock, just her utterance of _slit my wrists_ sending him into dismay. From over her shoulder, she hears Bucky sigh heavily and all at once, she regrets her words. “Yes,” she says, voice about as clear and calm as she can get it. “I’ve done it before. Just a couple of times.”

“Okay,” Steve nods, hitching his shoulders back in place.

A warm smile spreads across her face and she takes a step closer to him. “This is a good thing.”

Again, he nods, his face relaxing just a bit. “Okay.”

She stands directly in front of him, hands on her hips, sly grin building on her lips. “I do have a lot of… extra energy right now,” she intones. “And there’s something that we haven’t done in a really, really long time.” Steve cocks his head to the side, brow furrowing as he tries to figure out just what she’s getting at. “Wanna go for a run?” she asks with a brilliant, childlike enthusiasm as she wiggles her eyebrows at him.

Ever so slowly, his lips pull up into a wide, earnest smile. He gives a short nod and pushes out of the doorway, past a bemused Wanda. “Give me five minutes to change,” he tells her, an elated gleam in his eye.

000

“I don’t understand why now,” Tony mutters, pacing the floor in front of them in the common room. “You spent _weeks_ in the hospital. _Months_ … recovering. And the medical bills!” His hands fly wide in exasperation as he quickly turns on a heel to face Tessa. “And now you just… heal yourself?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t know how before. Believe me, if I had known, I would’ve done it then.” She flops down into a chair at the large conference table, the excess energy she’d been harboring most of the day finally beginning to melt off of her, leaving her muscles tight and limbs heavy. She lets out a long sigh. “Besides, it’s not something I can do on my own. I still would’ve needed Logan.”

“Logan?” Tony asks, pulling back in disgust. “Why?”

It’s Steve who answers, eager to relay all that he learned on their nearly eight-mile run an hour or so ago. “Logan’s mutation allows him to heal quickly. The _energy_ that Tessa pulled from him… what she used to… repair herself… that’s his…” He tosses her a quick, questioning look. “Life force?”

She nods – “Basically.” – and looks up at Tony, whose expression is stricken.

He raises his brows slowly. “You’re saying that you can drain a man of his _life force_? And use that to _heal yourself_?”

“Sounds crazy, huh?” she offers with a tight laugh. Then, clearing her throat and sitting upright. “But, yes, I can do that. And if I did it with someone who didn’t have Logan’s capacity for healing… well, I’d probably kill them.” She stares deeply into Tony’s eyes with a serious countenance. “But you already knew I could do _that_ , didn’t you?” she asks with a suspicious lilt.

He looks away quickly, turning in a wide arc as he tries to find someone else to talk to, someone else to even just look at. He settles on Wanda, studying her for a long moment before finally inquiring, “Aside from dealing with Lazarus woman over there, how was your trip up to mutant central?”

“Tony,” Steve chides with a huff, his arms pulling tighter across his chest.

He swings back around to the pair at the table – Steve and Tessa – and gives them an almost bewildered look. “I don’t know what to do with this,” he states simply. “I mean,” he bends over and leans his palms into the table as he glares at Steve. “I tried for _years_ to get her on the team. To get her to use her… her… incredible powers. And time and time again, she said _no_. Now you’re coming in here and telling me that she used her powers to heal herself, and now that she’s healed… and now that she’s apparently comfortable with pulling someone’s _life force_ – ”  

“I never said I was _comfortable_ with it,” she interjects quickly.

Tony continues on, unfazed by her interruption. “Now you’re telling me she wants in? She wants to go out in the field? And what… be an Avenger?”

“Not full time,” Steve replies calmly, a noticeable juxtaposition from Tony’s irritated verve. “But, yes. Sometimes.” He glances at Tessa from the corner of his eye. “I think she could be a real asset.”

Bucky pushes off of the wall where he’d been steadily brooding behind the group for the past twenty minutes. “She’s just now remembering again… just now getting a feel for what she can do. That’s way too soon to be –”

“I went on that mission in Mexico,” she interrupts harshly. “And that was when I only remembered… what I could. I only had an inkling of what I was capable of then, and you still said that I was amazing.”

He gives her a tired look, tone deadpan when he says, “I don’t remember that.”

The corner of her mouth ticks up just a bit. “You said that you thought there wasn’t _anything_ I couldn’t do.”

He raises his eyebrows and steps forward, leveling her with an almost reprimanding stare. “I was probably trying to get in your pants.”

She leans back in her chair and scoffs loudly. “You didn’t have to try,” she says with a teasing lilt, earning her a weary grin and a headshake from her fiancé.

“I think it would be good,” Wanda says suddenly, drawing all eyes to her. “Tessa and I can… work together. We both control energy, but in different ways. I think that having her out there could be really helpful. For me, at least,” she finishes with a bashful ducking of her head.

Tony nods slowly. “Well,” he breathes out, his posture looking almost defeated. Tessa feels a raw sort of excitement growing in her gut, knowing Tony well enough to see that the wheels inside his head are spinning – and they might just be spinning in her direction.

“She’d have to go through the paces,” Steve interjects. “Some formalized training. But also…” He turns to look at her, gives her a serious stare. “We’d have to talk to Xavier. I’d need to know _exactly_ what you’re capable of before putting you in the field.”

She nods definitively. “Absolutely. That makes sense. Though I’m not sure that any of us really know what _all_ I’m capable of.” She turns quickly to Wanda, and says as a cover, “But the same could be said of you.”

“Alright,” Tony barks out, throwing up a silencing hand. “Look, I have a thing. I have to go talk to a bunch of idealistic geniuses at MIT.” He releases a dramatic sigh – “Perfect timing for a speaking engagement.” – then looks over at Tessa and raises a single pointed finger. “I’m not convinced. You have a day to figure out how to convince me. And you should include in your argument how you’ll be able to be part of the team _and_ keep up with your duties at Stark Industries. Because I _will not_ accept that resignation. We’ll talk when I get back.” He spins around and marches from the room, tossing over his shoulder as he goes, “Try not to drain anyone’s life force while I’m gone!”

000

“I am _so_ tired,” Tessa says once they roll back into their apartment that evening. She collapses, face-first, onto the couch, mumbling into a pillow, “So tired.”

Bucky lets out a deep sigh and meanders over. He stares down at her dramatically splayed out body for a long moment and shakes his head pitifully before dropping down next to her. She quickly flings the pillow across the room, opting for laying her head on his thigh instead. “Kind of a big day,” he mutters absently, glancing down to see her curled up and gazing up at him longingly.

The moment their eyes meet, her face splits into a wide, childlike smile. “Steve and I went for a run,” she practically gushes.

He nods, just a small, quirked grin on his face. “I know. You two were gone a while too.”

She rolls onto her back, keeping her head cozily perched on his leg. “It felt so good,” she breathes out. “Just to… move.”

He brings his left hand down and begins to lazily trace along her temple with his metal thumb. “I’ll bet.”

She cocks a mischievous brow at him. “Did you know that I used to run when I was a kid? Distance.” She releases a soft chuckle. “There was only one other girl who ran with me, but I still claimed that we had a cross-country team. Put it on my college applications. I said I was the captain.” He gives her a soft smile. “Did I ever tell you that?” she asks curiously.

“Nope.”

Her brow creases in thought for the briefest of moments. “Huh. I wonder if I didn’t know.” She shifts further into his lap, takes hold of his metal hand and brings it down in front of her. “It’s hard for me to know now,” she says as she begins playing with his metal digits, folding and unfolding the fingers, her warm skin gliding across the overlapping plates. “Now that I _do_ know and I _do_ remember… it’s hard to remember what I didn’t remember then… you know?” She glances back up at him with an amused smirk, but the pleased expression drops suddenly when she sees the frown building on his face. “What?”

He shifts involuntarily, her concerned voice breaking him from whatever odd reverie he’d been trapped in. He looks down at her and his frown deepens. “What _what_?”

She pulls herself up out of his lap, swinging her legs around and off the couch so that she can sit upright. “What’s wrong?”

He releases a long, tired breath through his nose, but says nothing, instead fighting to give her a small, placating smile. As though she wouldn’t be able to see right through that.

“Are you mad? About me saying that I want to go on missions?” she asks, a defensive edge to her voice.

“No,” he mutters simply. “I’m not mad.”

“Are you disappointed that I’m healed?” she asks with an accusatory eyebrow. “Are you disappointed that I won’t be relying on you as much?”

His brows knit together, a stricken, almost bitter look rolling over his features. “What?”

Her voice rises in intensity when she says, “Well, I don’t know. You could be.”

“Tessa,” he says, shaking his head reproachfully. “I’m glad you’re… better.”

“You don’t seem very _glad_ ,” she offers with a petulant frown.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, sighs deeply as he drops his face into his hands and tiredly scrubs at it. “It’s just…” he starts, dropping his hands back down. “It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

She nods slowly and concedes, “I can appreciate that.”

He turns bodily to face her. “I am glad you’re healed. Really. I’m not sure how we’ll explain it to Dr. Hammond… or anyone else for that matter. But I’m glad.”

Still, he frowns, the expression so at odds with his words that she can’t help but roll her eyes dully. “What then?” she asks again, her tone serious, almost demanding.

He throws his hands up in the air and huffs out a tight breath. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve done everything you can to avoid going on any kind of mission. And now…”

“That’s not true,” she shakes her head vehemently. “I _wanted_ to be part of the thing with Lobe.”

“You thought you _should_ be part of it,” he counters. “And this thing in Nigeria… what happened there…”

“I could’ve helped,” she interrupts. “I could’ve prevented it.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But what happened… that wasn’t your fault. And it’s not your responsibility.”

“What does it say about me if I have the ability to help and instead I stay here and do nothing?”

“You’re not doing _nothing_ ,” he protests. “I know you want to help people. I know you want to make a difference. But…” He pinches his lips tightly together for a brief moment as he thinks on what to say next.

Impatience and frustration play openly on Tessa’s face. “But _what_?”

“But… you did that through science, medicine. That’s how you’ve helped. That’s how you’ve always wanted to help. This… going on missions… baby, that’s _different_.”

She releases an irritated sigh. “Yeah, I know it’s different.”

“And it kind of seems like it’s coming out of nowhere.”

She shakes her head. “Not nowhere. Look at what just happened!”

“I know.”

“Look at what they’re all saying about Wanda!”

His head snaps up, wide eyes quickly connecting with hers. “Wanda?”

“Yes!” she exclaims. “They’re all blaming her because she’s enhanced. They’re saying that she should be locked up or… or _registered_. Kept away from the public at large. They should be… they should be _grateful_ that someone with her kind of power is willing to help. And is using it for good… trying to _do good_.”

His expression quickly changes from surprise to understanding. “Baby,” he breathes out. Then, shifting around on the couch, he pulls his right leg up and drapes his arm over the rear cushions so that he can face her head-on. “Tessa,” he starts, serious stare boring into her. “I remember that op in Mexico. I remember handing you my gun and you giving it back saying you’ve never even fired a weapon.” She pulls her eyebrows together, giving him a quizzical look. “Our first _date_ ,” he begins with a small grin. “It was after running self-defense drills that you were _terrible_ at.”

“I wasn’t _terrible_ ,” she claims, a shrillness to her voice.

He chuckles lightly – “You weren’t good.” – and offers her a soft gaze. “In Sokovia… I could see how much you didn’t want to be there. How much you didn’t want to fight.”

“No one wanted to be there,” she argues.

He nods appeasingly. “I know.”

“You’re afraid I can’t handle it? Is that it?” Her words are accusing, but her voice holds nothing more than a sort of curious concern.

“I’m afraid that you’re gonna get yourself into something you really don’t want to do,” he says with a sincere authority.

“I can fight,” she argues blandly. “I _can_.”

“I know you _can_. But do you want to?”

Her mouth drops open, breath catching on unspoken words.

He leans further back and releases a long, drawn-out sigh. “The guys I fought with,” he says slowly, reluctantly… talking about the war never being an easy thing for him to do. “They didn’t _want_ to be there. None of us _wanted_ to fight. But those who enlisted, they did it because they thought it was the right thing to do. Because they wanted to protect their families and their homes. They wanted to help people and make a difference. And at that time, going to war was the only way they could do that.” He raises his brows at her assessingly. “I know right now it’s hard. With your company telling you that you have to work on something that… doesn’t really help anyone. And might actually hurt you and the people you love. It probably feels like you can’t make a difference there anymore. Not a good one anyway.”

She pulls her mouth shut, her teeth audibly clicking together as she does so. Her eyes drop down to her lap and she begins to fiddle with her fingers.

He reaches over and lays his metal hand atop hers to quell the fidgeting. “Those guys… the ones I fought with… the ones who enlisted because they felt they had no other choice… one way or another, the war _ruined_ them.” He pulls his hand up, moves his fingers over to her face, her chin, so that he can direct her gaze back up to him. “I don’t want that for you.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment, lets in his energy, his genuine concern and love. “I feel like a war is coming,” she says softly, almost a whisper. “And I don’t know… I don’t know if I can make a difference with _science_. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

“I know,” he nods, pressing his lips together lamentingly.

She clears her throat, her expression steeling. “But I will do what I have to,” she tells him in no uncertain terms.

Again, he nods. “I know you will.” He looks up at her with a sad, wistful smile. “I’ve been to war. I know the _fight_.” With a deep, distressed breath, he asks her – pleads with her, “Let me do this? Let me be the one who goes to war. Let me fight for you.” His hand quickly finds her face, his open palm pressing against her cheek with a desperation that no words can convey. “Let me do what needs to be done out there. And you can make a difference here… where you actually _want_ to be. Where it’s safe.”

She gives him an imploring look, her eyes softening as she begins to shake her head. “I don’t think,” she starts, gaze shifting from his only briefly as she releases a deep sigh. “I don’t think anywhere _is_ safe. Not anymore.”


	12. The Accords

She often thought of traveling to England when she was a little girl. It was a romantic dream of sorts, the aged wisdom of that place calling out to her from the depths of gothic books, epic movies, and Professor Xavier’s stories. The wistful look on his face any time he spoke of his childhood there – the parts of his childhood spent there rather than in the New York mansion, that is – was enough to make anyone want to take the journey. But what inspired Tessa the most was the twinkle in his eye, the youthful brightness that tugged through his core when he told her about his time at Oxford. The damp and oddly comforting smell of the old stone buildings. The lush green grounds and overgrown oaks pushing their way high above the courtyard walls. The noisy claptrap that filled the halls between classes. And of course, his spur-of-the-moment weekend exploits with his friends in London.

For someone like Tessa – who had run away from home seeking adventure for the first time at the tender of age ten – the idea of sneaking off to one of the most captivating cities in the world – even if just to participate in a bit of drunken debauchery with “the lads from across the way” – sounded like the single most exciting thing anyone could ever do.

Truth be told, she had hoped to go to Oxford. It had all been part of her grand plan. And part of the Professor’s plan. And part of fellow-alum Moira MacTaggert’s plan too. But then Jean Grey squashed the idea of her going to Muir Island the summer before her sixteenth birthday. And the pursuant bitterness drove her to Columbia instead. Not because she’d given up on Oxford… far from it. She had every intention of still earning a post-grad degree from the esteemed university. But she _had_ to leave home then, had get away from her smothering family. And seeing as how she was so young at the time – beginning her college coursework at just sixteen – Scott would only agree to a school that was close to home.

But she never quite made it on to Oxford, as it turned out. Not after losing Scott. And Jean. And… well, herself. Dreams of collaborating with other brilliant minds amid a rich backdrop of lush greenery and centuries-old masonry no longer mattered after all of that.  

She did finally make it to Muir Island, though, interning and studying alongside Dr. MacTaggert for nearly two years at the beginning of her career. And truthfully, she’s fairly certain that she learned more from her time on that cold, closed-off Scottish island than she ever would have attending a school on the mainland, even one as prestigious as Oxford.

Yet a part of her – even all these years later – still longs for those adventures she’d planned as a child. For the college experience and academic comradery she never truly got to have. And sometimes she still fantasizes about stealing away for the weekend with her friends, and beating a riotous, exuberant path through London.

This, however, is _not_ the London adventure she had dreamt of.

After two massive flight delays, Tessa and Sam arrived so late last night that even their mild-mannered plans for a night on the town had been ruined. And the rest of their time in London was to be entirely dedicated to Steve.

This morning, they rose at what felt like the butt crack of dawn – though the sun was high enough in the sky to prove otherwise – and fought through the jetlag and exhaustion that the last few days had brought so that they could go fight through the throngs of people waiting outside the abbey. Today Peggy Carter was being laid to rest. And they had every intention of positioning themselves at the very front of that church, laying claim to the section of pew where Steve was set to sit, so that they might sandwich themselves around their friend, offering him a shoulder to lean on no matter which direction he turned.

They were the only two who made the trip from New York to be by Steve’s side for the funeral. The only two who chose being there for their friend over… everything else.

Several members of the team had chosen to go to Vienna instead. To sign a piece of paper that would effectively strip them of their abilities to do their jobs as they saw fit. That’s how Tessa viewed it, anyway. Though, to be fair, she got most of that attitude straight from Steve.

Neither she nor Bucky had even been told of the impromptu meeting with Secretary Ross. It was no surprise really. Bucky’s involvement with the Avengers was still somewhat questionable considering his history, so Steve made every attempt to keep his participation in the initiative a secret from any officials. And Tessa, well, she was basically a tertiary member at best. Support staff. And as such, she had no reason for attending either.

But Tony had come by after to explain what exactly Ross had proposed. And to tell them both that they couldn’t be _officially_ on the team… couldn’t be full-fledged Avengers. Not if they didn’t sign these Sokovia Accords. But… “Signing them would out you both,” he’d explained simply, knowing that anyone identified as a member of the initiative would have to go through an intensive background screening.

The rest of the world may not know all there is to know about the Winter Soldier – or about Supernova, for that matter – but if their names were to appear on the Accords, it’d only be a matter of time before they did.

Bucky was told that he could remain on the support team without being identified. He was used to being _unofficial_ , so he’d merely shrugged and said, “Fine with me. I signed my life away to the government once already. Don’t plan on doing it again.”

But for Tessa this meant that her newfound desire to go into the field had been – at least temporarily – quashed. Truth be told, though the disappointment still lingered, tugging at the back of her mind like a nagging need to check the stove, she had breathed a quick sigh of relief the moment Tony left their apartment that night.

As for the others… Well, Tony had said that Rodey and Natasha were both on his side. Fair enough. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t understand their reasoning. But it was like a knife through the heart when Nat came by later that night to tell her that Clint had chosen retirement in place of signing his life away.

“I think he’s just being dramatic,” she had said. “He’ll come around.”

But Tessa could tell that she didn’t actually believe the words leaving her mouth. Clint was gone. Hawkeye, as it were, was dead.

Sam had chosen not to sign the Accords either, following in Steve’s wake as always. And Bruce refused to even discuss the possibility, saying only that he never wanted to be a superhero anyway. Four down.

Wanda was on the fence about the whole thing – not really believing herself that it was the right thing to do, but subconsciously swayed by the fact that Vision did. Tessa was convinced she would hold out in the end, and if so... that meant five.

And so it is that their family now lays scattered across oceans. Some back at home in New York, or all the way out at the Barton homestead. Others just now arriving in Vienna for hours of _official_ pomp and circumstance on the world stage. And just a few sit in a small pub down an old stone pathway in London, quietly looking out the large window at the River Thames as they plan to drown their sorrows and drink away the mournful remnants of the day.

Sam shifts uncomfortably on the stool beside her. Never one for a lingering silence, he asks, “So why didn’t Bucky come, again? I know Steve said he had his reasons, but…”

Tessa shrugs, glancing over her shoulder to find Steve still waiting up at the bar. “He thought it might be too much.” She swings back around to face Sam. “In a lot of ways, he’s done more to confront his past as the Winer Soldier than he has to make peace with his time at war. There’s a lot about that part of his life that he… doesn’t like to think about.”

Sam nods solemnly. “I get that,” he mutters, his mind immediately drifting to his own post-war struggles. “I do get that.”

They both look up as Steve walks back over, hands full with overflowing pints of beer. He sets them down as gently as he can, amber liquid still sloshing over the rims. “I’m watching you,” he says with a raised brow and a wily wink as he slides one Tessa’s way. “You overdo it and I’ll never hear the end of it from Bucky.”

Sam offers a small chuckle. “You know, I never really realized until _after_ you lost a kidney just what a lush you actually were.”

“Very funny,” she snipes with a mean roll of her eyes. “You probably never realized because I’d still be drinking long after you passed out.”

Steve shoots her an amused look, the grin looking almost unnatural on his face after the grief he’s so steadily worn for the past few days. “That really should be a sign to you that you drank too damn much.”

She scoffs loudly and takes a giant gulp of beer. “We all have our demons,” she mutters blandly after swallowing, waving a dismissive hand through the air.

“Yeah,” he replies, tone wistful. “I guess we do.”

Sam reads the return to solemnity and clears his throat harshly. “It was a really nice funeral,” he says to Steve. “I mean… I can’t believe that turnout.” He shakes his head thoughtfully. “She clearly made a difference in a lot of people’s lives.”

“Yeah,” Steve offers, a small, crooked smile perking his lips. “She did.”

“Wish I could’ve met her,” he says soberly.

Tessa whips around to Steve. “You never took him?”

He shakes his head. “After everything in DC… her granddaughter moved her out here. I only got to see her once after that.” He leans back and releases a long, draining sigh. “She was so far gone at that point, it almost didn’t seem fair. My being there just confused her more.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Sam states before facing Tessa. “Did you meet her?”

“Once,” she nods.

Steve lets out a small chuckle. “Tess is the one who found her for me. And convinced me to see her. _And_ took me out there to see her.” He turns to her with a bright, albeit melancholy, smile. “Just another thing I owe you for.”

“Please,” she intones. “You paid for this beer. You owe me nothing.”

He laughs again, the lighthearted sound slowly fading into a heady silence. “What happens now, you think?” he mutters after a long moment. No one asks what he’s referring to. Both Sam and Tessa know precisely what he means – the business with the Accords has been hanging low over each of their heads, appropriately mingling in with the grief and sorrow of the day. But neither are quite equipped to answer. Steve looks up and flicks his gaze back and forth between the two. “If we don’t sign,” he announces finally, settling his gaze on Sam, “I think we might be out of work.”

Sam takes a pull on his beer before settling back into his seat. “Guess it’s a good thing I never moved out to the compound then. At least I won’t be out a place to live too.”

“So you’re not going to do it?” Tessa asks, her tone hesitant. “You’d give up being an Avenger?”

The look of pain in his eye doesn’t escape her, nor does the sorrowful energy that rolls off of him. “Feels more like it’s being taken away, if you ask me.”

“Sam,” Steve interjects. “I don’t want you to do this – or _not_ do this – just because of me. You’re great at what you do. And no matter what I decide… I’d feel a hell of a lot better knowing that you’re part of the team.”

He shakes his head absently, a sly smile splitting his face. “I’m on Team Cap. Always have been. Besides,” he pauses briefly and glances over at Tessa. “Ross… this is the same guy who’s pushing for mutant registration. I can’t be a part of _his_ grand plan.”

She shoots him a bashful grin, ducking her head in something akin to timidity. But Steve’s quick to point out that, “He’s not the only one.” He raises a critical brow in Tessa’s direction, his voice suddenly grave as he says, “It’s getting serious, isn’t it? Since Canada passed their registration laws? And China last week?”

She nods, but says nothing in reply.

He shakes his head sadly. “There’s no way you can join the team now,” he utters softly, slowly. “If you disclosed – ”

“I know, Steve,” she interrupts quickly, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I know.”

Sam shifts in his seat. “What would happen,” he begins, laying his open palm atop her hand. “What would happen if you… registered? Told the world who you are?”

She shrugs – “Who knows?” – and takes a quick drink. “SHIELD had a file on me from the time I was eight. Nothing really came of it. But… that’s just me.”

Steve’s jaw ticks tightly, his expression turning stony. “That means Hydra had those same files. And we know they were doing all kinds of experiments.” He gives her an almost menacing look. “Maybe they just didn’t get the chance to do anything to you.”

Her gaze drops down to the tabletop and she focuses her attention on the spilled droplets of beer before her. “Maybe.”

“People like Ross,” he goes on, “they can say all they want that they’re doing these things to protect us. Protect America. Protect the world. But a single compiled list of all people with super powers? Tell me that’s not information just begging to wind up in the wrong hands.”

She looks up at him sharply. “I’m not convinced that the people compiling the list aren’t the _wrong hands_.”

“You think the government would…” Sam starts, his brow furrowing as he contemplates how to finish the thought.

Tessa nods emphatically. “I think our government is filled with people. And people do stupid things. Sometimes for good reasons. Sometimes for selfish ones. But, yeah, I think the government _would_.”

Steve releases a tight breath before adding, “And if that government – along with others – has to be consulted before the Avengers can get involved and do anything about… whatever might happen… If those same people have to sanction our actions first? Then our hands are tied.” He shrugs dully, weary gaze dropping. “There wouldn’t be anything we could do.”

Sam nods slowly, eyes moving back and forth between the two suddenly very on edge people before him. “So,” he drawls out. “Just for the record, we’re _not_ going to Vienna then?”

000

Vienna. No, they don’t go to Vienna. But plenty of other people do. Plenty of people show up for the signing of the Sokovia Accords. There are foreign officials and dignitaries, UN ambassadors, high-ranking businessmen from around the globe, and, of course, the willing Avengers. Their involvement alone turns the special assembly into a media circus. So it’s no wonder that so many others turn out for the event as well.

Just outside the walls of the embassy, large groups of demonstrators gather. Men, women, even children, from all over the world join their voices in either assent or objection to the Accords.

But not all of the people are gathered because of the ratification. One group in particular assembled to – loudly and passionately – object to the UN’s refusal to impose sanctions on nations such as Canada – and now China and South Africa – for passing laws requiring the registration of any mutant or inhuman. China had even gone so far as to set forth a program to test the blood of all newborns to determine if they have the X-gene.

Clearly this type of legislation is a travesty, a violation of one’s inherent right to privacy, and a very, very slippery slope. But the UN doesn’t seem to care about these laws – never mind the fact that, already, after just weeks on the books, they’re managing to spawn other, far more invasive laws. Never mind that these sorts of regulations – this sort of _us versus them_ thinking – is almost always a precursor to something far worse. To war. To pogroms. To genocide.

No. The UN has more important things to think about right now. Like ensuring that Earth’s mightiest heroes are kept on a tight leash.

But there’s so much media attention focused on this event, and so many cameras – none of which are allowed into the building – that they have nowhere to focus but on the throngs of people outside. All day long, demonstrator after demonstrator is interviewed and pressed for a sound byte. Some of them are there to convince the UN to impose sanctions. Some are fervently fighting for _more_ anti-enhanced legislation and restrictions. Some have come out to show their support for the Accords, believing they afford more protection for the everyday citizen. Some are there to rail against them, citing the fact that, despite the losses in New York and Sokovia, the Avengers _did_ save the world.

The entire day plays out on the world stage. And an eerie tension that goes beyond just the signs and shouts from those gathered outside the building slowly grows as the time for ratification nears.

But despite the growing fervor outside their doors, everyone at the assembly seems to be on task and on schedule. Pens are very nearly in hand… just one more speaker – T’Chaka, King of Wakanda, a regent who had lost several of his people in the disaster at Lagos – needs to finish his remarks. And then the whole thing can be over.

Yes… over.

But not how anyone anticipates it to be.

Just as T’Chaka ends his speech, a round of applause filling his ears, an unnamed man steps out amid the protestors below. He sidles up next to the building, the guards and police not even sparing him a glance. He stands stark still, beneath an overhang, partially obscured from the crowd, but directly in the line of the cameras trained on the protests. He tightly clenches his fists, holding them down by his side, until a slight popping sound can be heard. By the time the people on the ground see what he’s doing, by the time they notice the deep, burning red bubbling along his bare forearms, it’s already too late.

As the assembly upstairs celebrates and prepares for their momentous occasion, the strange, super-powered man standing floors below them musters all the power he can into his very core. And then – with a sharp pop and crack – he explodes, putting out a force equal to nearly two tons of dynamite, taking out demonstrators, spectators, media… and complicit officials alike.


	13. We Are Not the Problem

One more day. Just one more day, and then Bruce will be back to relieve her at the compound. And _hopefully_ help out with other Stark Industries initiatives. At the very least he can help keep Tony off her back so she can focus on actually _doing_ her job instead of just constantly debriefing the boss. Honestly, right now Tessa will take any help she can get.

To say that things have been hectic since the explosion at the UN would be, well _understatement_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

It was madness. Sheer, utter madness.

In the six weeks or so since the attack _everyone_ seemed to be scrambling – worldwide – to find a solution to the mutant problem. Never mind the fact that no one had even been able to confirm that the “bomber” was actually a mutant at all.

Using surveillance footage and photos and video taken at the rally that day, officials were able to confirm his identity – 28-year-old Marco San Paulo from Brazil. Brazil, as it would have it, was one of just a handful of nations staunchly opposed to creating any sort of registry for enhanced people.

_Was_.

Once the media started in, and all of the talking heads took over commentary, Brazil announced that – in light of their failure to protect the world from this threat – they, like so many others, were taking steps to determine what could be done in the way of rooting out additional potential threats.

But there had been no reason to suspect that this San Paulo was actually a threat in the first place. He seemed like a normal, quiet, working class young man. No criminal record. No known ties to any extremist groups. No one knew him to have any sort of special powers or abilities. There were no identified mutants in his family. And no one close to him recalled him changing or behaving any differently following the recent inhuman _epidemic_.

Furthermore, there wasn’t enough of his body left – at least not discernable parts of _just_ him – to test to see if he harbored the X-gene, M-gene, or anything in between. There was no proof that this man had been _one of them_ at all. Nothing to indicate that he was in any way enhanced… other than the strange and awesome power that he used to kill nearly 100 people and bring the world to its knees.

No one knew just what he was, nor why he did what he did. And that was almost more terrifying than the act itself.

Steve had decided that it was the responsibility of the Avengers to investigate the attack. Tony insisted they leave it alone and let Interpol deal with it. And it was that disagreement, more so than the one they had over the Accords, that seemed to cement this new rift between the two. As a result, back at the compound things had become… tense. Strained. Infuriatingly awkward.

The entire team seemed to be living in limbo, unsure of whether or not they were even allowed to take action. Steve insisted that, because the Accords were never ratified, they still had every right – and _responsibility_ – to look into the terrorist attack that very nearly took the lives of several team members, not to mention all of the other innocents. But Tony, while acknowledging that, yes, they were still _technically_ able to operate without oversight, wanted everyone to honor the spirit of the unsigned Accords. He still believed that the Avengers needed to be kept in check. And frankly, Steve stepping out and insisting on looking into this when he asked him not to – when he, for whatever reason, believed it was better left out of their hands – only made him dig his heels in deeper.

This brewing battle between their two _leaders_ left the rest of the team utterly confused, completely frustrated, and mostly stagnant.

But while the Avengers were left in a sort of paralytic state as they worked to navigate their way through this building schism, Tessa was too busy being pushed to the brink to pay much attention to the pained tension at home.

Tony held a press conference not two days after the explosion to tell the world that Stark Industries was beginning work on an X-gene inhibitor – a title that Tessa had chosen for the project in the hopes of keeping anyone from referring to it as an eradicator or a treatment. Of course, the media glommed onto the far more sensational term regardless, and promptly began calling it Tony Stark’s Mutant Cure.

And now everyone who was anyone in biotech wanted in.

They had effectively started a new Race for the Cure. Only this one didn’t involve a sea of pink moving though Central Park. No, this race had the foremost scientists in the world, each backed by their own multi-billion-dollar investors, vying for what little information there was out there on the X-gene. And that meant that everyone – including the staff in the private lab back at the compound – had to buckle down and work their asses off to get _better_ results _faster_ than anyone else.

The past few weeks had been exhausting. And frustrating. And utterly draining. And that’s precisely why Tessa is _so_ desperate to have Bruce back to help lighten her load.

The countdown had become a running mantra. _One more day_ , she can tell herself now. _Just_ … “One more day,” she sighs aloud, swinging open the doors leading to the small, mostly idle lab on the twentieth floor of the Tower.

The lab is typically empty, has been since her staff moved to the compound over a year ago. So she almost trips over her own two feet when Tony’s voice startles her from her frustrated ruminations. “I don’t know why you told him he could have the extra time,” he singsong from the corner of the room.  She looks over at him, utterly shocked by his presence – never mind the fact that he’s the one who told her to meet him in the empty lab.

She pulls in a deep breath to still her now racing heart, and rolls her eyes when she sees his all-too-smug smirk. “Nat needed some time. After the attack,” she says plainly, offering a simple shrug. “Figured they could vacation together.”

“Playing matchmaker?” He waggles a pointed finger at her. “This is what married people do, you know. Force everyone around them into relationships.”

She sets her tablet and a small stack of papers down on the counter, shoving away some piles of old, empty files to do so. “It’s disgusting in here,” she mutters under her breath before collecting the glassware by the sink that had clearly been washed yet never put away. “I’m not forcing anyone into anything,” she tells him before heading to the cabinets across the room, beakers and measuring glasses in hand. “And I’m not married.”

“Thank God for that,” he sighs dramatically. “There’s still time for you to come to your senses.”

She rolls her eyes again, even though her back is to him so he can’t actually see it. “Is it my choice of husband that bothers you so much? Or is it just the idea of marriage itself?”

“Yes,” he replies, short and clipped.

She shakes her head, letting the cabinet door fall shut in front of her. “Pepper’s just the luckiest woman in the world.”

“Thank you,” he replies, pulling his buzzing phone from his jacket pocket and flipping up a _hold on_ finger for her. She releases a small, annoyed huff as he picks up the call. “Yeah? Yep. Send him up,” he says quickly into the phone, before turning back to Tessa.

She’s leaning heavily on the counter, resting her hip into it as her arms lay crossed almost angrily over her chest. She lifts a single eyebrow, a clear question. _What do you want?_

He stifles a snigger at her obvious irritation, but can’t quite manage to keep the amusement from showing on his face. “So impatient,” he teases.

“Tony, I have a hundred other things I could – and _should_ – be doing right now. Why am I here?”

He shrugs. “Because I’m your boss and I asked you to come here.” He moves slowly toward her, meandering listlessly as he swipes a finger along the length of the countertop to his left. “This was where I first put you,” he says, a hint of nostalgia to his voice. He looks up at her, cocking his head impishly. “Your first lab.”

She feels her lips quirk up at the corners. “Yeah. I know.”

“We used to work together here,” he mentions, his expression shifting to show off the confident, easygoing Tony Stark that every person on the planet can’t help but be drawn to. “Just you, me, and the big green guy. Well,” he shrugs, “when he wasn’t green anyway.”

“Feeling suddenly sentimental?” she asks him with a mocking lilt. It’s good to see him looking more… relaxed. Truth be told, she’s been a bit worried about him lately. His energy over the past several weeks has been filled with nothing but grief, regret, fear, and a sort of suffocating anxiety that often left her weak in the knees when they were in the same room together. But while it’s great to _not_ see that turmoil hang off of him like a heavy fog, well… “I don’t really have time for a stroll down memory lane right now right, Tony.”

He slowly lifts his head and locks onto her eyes. The small, playful smile falls from her face as she takes in his newly dark, serious stare. “Strange to think that things were so much easier then. We’d just been attacked by aliens…” His gaze begins to drift off towards nothing, tone growing weary as he goes on. “But somehow everything seemed… easier. Clearer.”

The anxious energy begins to pool around him again and cloud her vision. “Tony?” she asks simply, the word laced with concern.

But before he can respond, there’s a sharp rapping at the open door. And just like that he’s pulled from his sad reverie, the unease slowly dissipating around him. Tessa jerks her attention towards the other side of the lab as Tony issues out, “I got you a present.” He waves the unfamiliar young man into the room. “This,” he says, patting the kid’s shoulder, “is Peter. Peter Parker.”

She doesn’t move from her spot by the counter. “Is he a stripper?” she asks cautiously, raising a single brow appraisingly. The boy’s face twists in confusion, an almost terrified look rolling over his features. She narrows her eyes at him, fighting to keep the teasing smile at bay. “He looks pretty young to be a stripper. But from you, I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“Okay,” Tony says, a slight irritation burning through the word. He gives Peter a small shove forward. “First of all, my gifts are freaking amazing. Don’t make the kid think otherwise. Second of all, no, he’s not a stripper.” He turns and looks assessingly at the young man. “At least, I don’t think he is.”

Peter’s face is a perturbed mix of shock and bewilderment, and his voice is halting as he utters, “No. No, I’m… I’m not.”

Tessa’s eyes shine with held-back laughter as she glances over at Tony and wiggles her brows. “Is he a puppy?” she asks excitedly.

“No,” Peter spits out from beside him. “No, I’m a… a boy.” His eyes go wide, cheeks flooding with deep crimson. “A man, I mean. I’m a man.” He spins quickly to look at Tony, who merely cocks his head curiously at the boy-man before him. “Who is this?” he asks with an audible squeak. “What… why am I here?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asks, amusement shining through his otherwise stern-seeming glare. “You’re a gift. For her.” He throws an arm out towards Tessa and introduces her finally. “This is Dr. Sullivan. Premier geneticist. Head of Stark Industries Genetic Medical Research division. Lead physician of the Avengers. Current employee of the month. Fan of child strippers.” He tosses a glance her way. “We should probably talk to HR about that last one.”

She pushes off of the counter, small smirk blooming into a welcoming smile as she extends her hand to the young man before her. “Hi Peter,” she says, voice light and airy. “You can call me Tessa.”

“You can call her Dr. Sullivan,” Tony corrects with a scoff. “She’s your elder.”

“Tony!” she remarks with a disgusted growl.

He merely shrugs, watching as Peter offers a firm handshake, his eyes – like those of any teenage boy – slowly, unwittingly raking along the female form in front of him. Tony lets out a soft sigh and shakes his head. “He’s your pincushion for the next couple of hours,” he tells Tessa. “I have to have him back to Queens by five. He’s got _homework_ ,” he intones with a mocking lilt.

“Well, yeah,” Peter starts, hurriedly. “But… pincushion?”

Ignoring the slight fear in the kid’s voice, Tony goes on, eyes boring into Tessa. “A few months back, he… changed. I know how excited you get about digging into the mysteries of magical powers.”

“Magical?” Peter mutters.

Tessa turns to him swiftly. “Puberty?” she asks without preamble.

His brows scrunch together. “A few months ago?” he asks, incredulous. “No! I’m fifteen!”

She shrugs. “Mutant powers often present around puberty. Any kind of traumatic event that could’ve served as an impetus?”

“You mean more traumatic that discovering I suddenly have super powers? No. Not really.” He raises a single, serious brow. “And I’m not a mutant.”

“How do you know?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in his direction once again. “Have you been tested for the X-gene?”

“No,” he replies, sounding almost confused. “I… I don’t think so.”

“He doesn’t remember tuning into stone and busting out of any alien cocoon either,” Tony supplies. “Sorry about that. I know how much you want to get your hands on an inhuman.”

She feels Peter’s energy shift dramatically, something about Tony’s words – or perhaps the way he says them – triggering a sudden onslaught of panic in the kid. She offers him a comforting gaze and a small smile to quell his concern. “So what happened a few months back?”

“I…” he pulls in a deep, centering breath, and she feels him calm almost instantly. “I got bitten. By a spider.”

Tessa’s brow furrows, confusion lacing her features. “Like a… brown recluse? Or a black widow?” she asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“No,” he admits slowly. “Like a… a… spider.”

Tony rolls his eyes dramatically and steps up in between them. “Mild-mannered, dorky kid one day,” he starts, pulling up a holoscreen in front of them. “Then… this.” Tessa watches with curiosity as the video plays before her, a slight man dressed in red and blue swinging effortlessly through the city on…

“What is that?” she asks, pointing at the screen. “What are you using as line?”

Peter looks to Tony, who gives a noncommittal shrug. “It’s this,” he says, holding out his hand and shooting a spindly… substance across the room. The thin, delicate string sticks to a cabinet door, the other end remaining attached to Peter’s wrist. He glances briefly at Tessa, offers a quick grin, and gives a slight tug at the string to pull the door completely off its hinges and send it crashing to the ground.

“Interesting,” she mutters, gazing at the now open cabinet where she had just packed away equipment. She gives the kid a sidelong glance. “I hope you can pay for that.”

The self-satisfied smirk falls quickly from his face as he stutters out a, “Yeah… yes, ma’am.”

She rolls her eyes in irritation. “Jesus Christ, puppy-man,” she fires off at him. “Do _not_ call me ma’am.”

“Oh,” he says with a quick nod. “Yeah. Sure. Sorry, ma’am.” He cringes. “Uh… I mean…”

“Relax, kid,” Tony says, patting him on the back. Unbeknownst to Peter, he connects eyes with Tessa from behind his back and mouths the words, _kids today_ with a dramatic eyeroll of his own. “Dr. Sullivan is a professional,” he says. His gaze drops down the length of her body, takes in her ripped jeans and old, faded Columbia University T-shirt. “No matter what her appearance might lead you to believe.” He twists Peter around in his grip and connects with his eyes in an intense stare. “I’m leaving you in good hands.”

“But…”

Tony saunters out of the room without so much as a farewell, unceremoniously swinging the door shut behind him. Peter turns slowly to look at Tessa, who once again is leaning into the counter behind her with her arms crossed over her chest. A small, playful smile tugs at her lips, the grin growing wider upon sensing Peter’s hesitation. “So,” she begins slowly, drawing the word out. “A spider. An alien spider?”

“I… I don’t know if it was _alien_ ,” he says, shoulders tensing.

She sniggers just a bit, no longer able to keep her amusement tucked away. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, Peter,” she says reaching into a drawer beside her to pull out a few syringes, “I promise that _I_ won’t bite you.”

000

“So he’s a… spider kid?” Bruce asks, face scrunched up in confusion.

“Spider- _man_ ,” she corrects with a whimsical lilt, pulling herself up onto the edge of her desk. “He’s pretty incredible, though. And his entire genetic structure is…” She pauses briefly, lips pinching firmly shut as she thinks of the right words. But she can’t quite capture what she discovered yesterday in mere words. She shakes her head in amazement. “Whatever that spider did to him… it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Bruce drops down into the worn chair opposite Tessa, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s looming in the hall outside her office. “So Tony’s just out searching for new superheroes now? That’s his thing?”

She shrugs, then twists her sore neck to crack it. “He doesn’t exactly have many on his side right now.”

“Yeah,” Bruce mutters, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Things seem pretty… tense around here.”

She smiles lightly, but refuses to comment further. If there’s one thing she’s learned over these last several weeks, it’s that some things are better left alone. Or maybe it’s just easier to live in denial right now. Either way, she’s not really interested in discussing the fact that the Avengers seem to be on the verge of splintering. “I’m glad you’re back,” she sighs out simply.

He looks up at her, casually pushing his glasses above the bridge of his nose as he does so. “You look beat,” he says with a crooked smile.

She nods. “This is the first night I’ve been home all week,” she tells him with a sort of bitter affect. “And look at me,” she intones, swinging her arms out dramatically. “I’m still holed up in an office… just a more comfortable one.” She pauses briefly, glance bouncing over to the couch in the corner of the room as she contemplates grabbing a quick nap before heading up to her apartment. “But I guess I asked for it,” she sighs out sadly. “Signing on with the board of Stark Industries is signing your life away.”

“I never asked… did they make you sign your contract in blood?”

She shakes her head. “No. But I did have to agree to give them my firstborn for some sort of sacrifice to the gods of power and finance.”

Bruce chuckles under his breath. “Sounds about right.” Then, after a brief moment, he says, “I heard Tony’s press conference. About the X-gene research.”

“You heard that in… where were you again?” she asks, brow furrowed.

“Argentina… then, anyway.” He pulls out his phone and frowns down at it. “I get an alert every time Tony hits the airwaves. And I don’t know how to turn it off.”

“You probably can’t,” she tells him, grabbing the Stark Industries-issued phone from his hand and chucking it across the room. It bounces off a shelf and skids out into the empty hall. He gives her a startled look and she merely shrugs. “Had to be done.”

He nods solemnly, making no attempt to retrieve the phone. “Probably right,” he shrugs before cocking his head at her curiously. “How did this plan come about anyway? A _mutant cure_?”

“Vargas,” she breathes out.

Bruce shakes his head, a hint of anger perking the edges of his voice when he spits out, “Tony’s choice. The guy who _knows what money actually looks like_.”

She glances over at him, brows knitted together. “He said that?”

“He said there wasn’t any more room left on the team for another bleeding heart. He wanted someone who would act like this was a business.”

Tessa throws her head back despondently, almost tumbling backwards onto her workspace as she releases a pained sort of moan. When she straightens back up, it’s with a weary sigh and capitulating shrug. “Well, I suppose it is a business.”

Bruce narrows his eyes at her, stunned by her response. “How long was I gone?”

“Almost eight weeks,” she quips.

“But how can _everything_ change in just eight weeks?”

She shrugs again, then looks him square in the eye. “This research, it’s happening whether we do it or not. And frankly, I’d rather it be us. I’d rather be able to drive what’s about to happen… as much as I can anyway.”

He nods slowly, a deep sigh falling from his lips. “I get that,” he says, voice soft and understanding. “But… at the end of the day, Tess,” he shakes his head admonishingly, “we’re talking about manipulating people’s genetic code. Turning them into something they’re not.”

“I know that.”

“And it’s one thing if it’s to help them. If the X-gene actually caused illness, disease. But it doesn’t.”

“I know, Bruce.”

“And that’s not what this will be used for anyway.” He rises from the chair and begins a slow pace in front of her. “Think about it. This won’t be getting into the hands of the public at large. At least not yet. And if it does? It’ll be scared parents turning their kids into _normal_ children. Or… or pissed off vigilantes trying to _fix_ the world. But at first?” He twists around to glare at her with wide eyes. “It’ll be the government doing that. It’ll be judges sentencing mutants to a life sentence of being someone else. And cops… dosing people any time they feel threatened. Tessa,” he steps forward, dropping his hand to her shoulder. “This is playing with fire.”

She recoils as though his touch itself were fire. “You think I don’t know all of that?” she asks, fierce stare piercing into him. “What am I supposed to do, Bruce? I can’t… I can’t turn back time. I can’t go back to before the UN attack, or before inhumans came about and brought super-powered crime into the public eye. I can’t rewind to before aliens came to Earth and enhanced people helped wreck New York. Or Sokovia. Or Lagos.” Her gaze drops as she wraps her arms tightly around her center. “I can’t change what people think of us.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But that doesn’t mean you have to help those people potentially ruin the lives of others. You don’t have to be involved with this.”

She says nothing, just hugs herself tighter and continues to avert her eyes.

“You do realize that if you and Barnes have children, they’ll be mutants, right?” She looks up at him, glares intensely in his direction. “Would you inhibit the gene on them? _Cure_ them?”

She stares at him for a long moment, her eyes slowly growing colder. “Didn’t you put a bullet in your own head to try and stop your _powers_?”

“Didn’t you slit your wrists to stop yours?” He counters, advancing on her slowly. He leans over her as he utters, voice deep and compelling, “If someone had taken from us that _thing_ that makes us so damn special – our _powers_ – we’d be dead right now.” He straightens back up and nonchalantly scoots his glasses up his nose once again. “Doesn’t sound like much of a _cure_ to me.”

“Are you shitting me?” she exclaims. “You hate your… your… other guy.”

He pulls back, his face twisting in defense. “I don’t hate him.”

She gives him a rather dirty, _get real_ scowl.

“People change, Tessa,” he breathes out. “You know, when we first met… I remember Tony pushing you to use your powers in front of me, to just show me… something. And you wouldn’t do anything more than a cheap parlor trick.”

“Sorry I failed to entertain you, Bruce,” she snipes bitterly.

He lets out a long, tired sigh. “That’s how desperate you were not to use them. And not to… to show anyone what you were really capable of. You’ve been hiding who you really are for… how long now?”

She says nothing, simply continues to glare daggers at the man, her mouth pressed in a firm, unanswering line.

“But now?” he , begins again staring her down. “Nat told me about you wanting to go on missions.”

“So?” she asks, more than just a hint of petulance to her tone.

“So? So… maybe you got back some of who you once were and it showed you who you’re supposed to be.” He pauses and raises his eyebrows at her, hoping for confirmation.

She gives him nothing of the sort.

“You’re right,” he offers, voice more gentle than before. “I did hate the other guy. For a long time. But I’ve realized some things over the last few years. I realized that he helped save a lot of people in New York. And in Sokovia. And we never would’ve gotten Nat away from Ultron without him.” He takes a step back and begins to pace across the small office once again. “And, you know, yeah, he’s done a lot of shitty things. Harlem, for one. But the other guy?” he says, spinning back to face her. “He didn’t bring aliens to New York… they never would’ve come down here if Fury hadn’t decided to put the tesseract to use. But he still fought alongside everyone else. _I_ didn’t do that. And he’s not the one who helped create Ultron. That was _me_ and Tony. So, I don’t know… I don’t know why I thought he was the bad guy all along.”

He stills in front of Tessa, works to steady his breathing as he stares ahead, waiting for her to say something. Anything. But she simply continues to stare at him, an unreadable expression plastered on her face.

“That’s the thing about the Accords and this cure stuff,” he begins again, voice low and steady. “That’s why it’s all just a bunch of bullshit. Because us – you and me, Tess – we’re not the problem. _That’s_ what I’ve come to realize. Even with our fantastic and dangerous powers, _we are not the problem_.”

She blinks once, twice, her expression stoic and unchanging as she watches the man in front of her grow steadily more irritated with her silence. “Bruce,” she says finally, a cold and distant quality to her voice. She shakes her head and breathes out an exhausted sigh before rising and moving to sit back down at her desk.

Her eyes drop to the stack of files and notebooks before her – books containing scribblings from many years past that she just dug up. Files holding notes on projects that she never thought she’d revisit, certainly never thought she’d put to actual use. She stares down at her work, years of compiled findings that all point to the same dreaded conclusions, and she feels hot tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she states plainly, no emotion to her voice. Without looking up, she flings a dismissive hand through the air. “But I have a lot of work do.”


	14. Anything but Simple

Tessa glances down at her empty mug and frowns. It’s only ten and already she’s downed three cups of coffee, her hands jittering so badly that she has to tightly grip the sides of her chair to keep the tremors from migrating up her arms. But despite the nervous energy coursing through her body, her mind feels very much asleep – almost numb – after having spent the last several hours bouncing back and forth between the labs.

She spent last night at the apartment in the Tower – a thing she’d been doing more and more over the last few weeks. And that gave her the opportunity to do something she very rarely got to do anymore – hit up the labs before anyone else arrived.

For Tessa, there was something singularly comforting, utterly satisfying, and just plain _rapturous_ about being able to work away her worries and cares. Especially if she was able to do it in a state-of-the-art laboratory that she could call her own, which for all intents and purposes, she could rightfully say of the labs in the Tower. Those few hours of blissful, uninterrupted _work_ officially marked the highlight of her week thus far. It had been so relaxing and distracting that she didn’t even care about the fact that she now had to power through the rest of her day on little more than three hours of sleep.

The truth, though, is that no matter how much she may have _wanted_ to go in early, she really had things that she _needed_ to do in the labs today. Things that she had to do _alone_ , in fact. That’s what got her out of bed at quarter after four this morning, when the rest of the Tower was still dead to the world. She simply needed to be alone.

And lately that seemed almost impossible to achieve.

She knew, of course, that running a division of Stark Industries would be a tremendous time suck. And frankly, when she accepted the job nearly a year ago, she’d had no qualms about increasing her workload. But what she hadn’t realized then was just how different this work would be.

Most of her time now is spent sitting in front of a computer going over reports, rather than doing the experiments needed to compile them. In place of endless hours spent in the lab, meetings have become her new norm. She teleconferences daily with people in Seattle, in Seoul, now at a new satellite office in Jakarta. When she does manage to leave the sacred space of her office, she’s met with fellow scientists and techs pulling her in a million different directions. If she wanders too far from the labs, members of the board somehow seem to find her and commence breathing down her neck, looking for near-constant status updates. And no matter how she tries to avoid taking outside calls or getting manipulated into any more meetings, the sudden influx of curious visitors from across the globe hoping to pick her brain somehow always manage to make it into the schedule.

The _schedule_.

Tessa’s life, it seems, now belongs to the creator of that schedule, her assistant, Claire. For years now, Claire has been among the most important, least dispensable people in her life. Without her, Tessa would have no idea what to do when. She wouldn’t know which meetings to attend, nor what the agendas would be. She wouldn’t know who was trying to get ahold of her… nor how, when, or why. Lately, Claire had even taken to reminding her to eat, tossing a banana at her in the middle of the day or slipping protein bars into the pockets of her lab coat (though she suspected this new routine was at the behest of her often fretful fiancé). The truth is, Tessa probably wouldn’t even know what day it was – or what time – if Claire wasn’t there to inform her.

Which is precisely why she’s trying so very hard right now to wake her brain up enough to take in everything – or at least _some_ things – that her assistant is currently rattling off.

“Tonight, you have dinner with Drs. Cho and Han who are in town from Seoul. I confirmed that Mr. Stark will be joining you. And he said that he will also be able to make the trip out to Seattle on Thursday to meet with you and the new king of… Wakanda,” Claire wrinkles her nose as she stumbles over the unfamiliar name, but quickly recovers and continues to ramble on as she flicks down the schedule on the screen of her tablet. “You have a five o’clock with a representative from the British Ministry of Defense. But you’re free until then.”

Tessa raises her head off the back of the office chair and gives her a curious look. “Free? Until five?”

She nods, a peculiar and suspicious glint to her eye. “Well, Ms. Potts did ask that I work her in.”

Her head drops heavily back to the chair as she lets out an exhausted groan. “She was probably sent by the board with a cattle prod.”

“Would that make you move faster?” Tessa hears, the voice lighter than Claire’s and harboring an amused cadence. She looks up and sees Pepper standing in her doorway with a wide smile on her face. “I promise I’m not here on behalf of the board. In fact,” she starts, moving slowly into the room. “I’m not here on business at all.”

Tessa’s brow furrows as she watches Natasha and Wanda both follow the tall blonde into the office. “Hi,” she drawls out, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

Claire flips off her tablet and turns to leave, stating, “I’ll have the conference room set up for your meeting by four,” before ducking out.

Natasha, ignoring Tessa’s question entirely, slips past the other women and begins stalking about the room. “So this is your office,” she intones, roaming blithely as her fingertips flit along the shelves. “Fancy.” She stops in front of the picture of her and Tessa, carefully pics it up to take a look.

“Aw,” Wanda chimes from over her shoulder. “That’s cute. Where was that?”

Nat shrugs. “One of Tony’s parties probably.” She flips the picture around towards Tessa. “Do you know?”

Before she can answer, Pepper jumps in with, “It was Tony’s birthday a few years back. I think it was the first party that Tessa came to after starting work here.” She steps over to the women and takes the frame from Natasha’s hand, puts it delicately back on the shelf, adjusting it slightly to make sure it’s positioned just right. “Come on, ladies,” she says then, an enthusiastic authority to her voice. “We have an appointment at eleven and a car full of champagne waiting for us.”

“Okay,” Tessa states loudly as she finally rises from behind her desk. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Wanda steps over to her excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “We’re going to find you a wedding dress.”

000

“I don’t understand,” Pepper says, confused pout pulling at her features. She looks over at Tessa and sees her head bowed as she fervently types away on her phone. “You really haven’t made _any_ plans? None at all?”

Natasha elbows Tessa hard in the side when she fails to answer – “Ow.” – and swipes the phone out of her hands. “Hey!”

“Pepper asked you a question,” she says, quickly placing a glass of champagne in her friend’s now empty hand and tossing the phone into a cup holder on the opposite side of the spacious limo. “You don’t want to be rude.”

Tessa swivels to look at Pepper, shoving her glasses haphazardly up into her hair. “Sorry,” she mumbles amid a sudden yawn. “What?”

She shakes her head sadly as she gazes at the exhausted, preoccupied woman in front of her. “You and Tony,” she intones softly, pausing just long enough to issue out a _tsk tsk_. “You two think that work is life.”

She lets out a long, labored sigh. “I don’t think that,” she argues blandly. “Things are just a bit crazy right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” she states, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “But in case _you_ haven’t noticed, life is still going on… all around you. And if you don’t step out of the lab and your office to see it, it’s all just going to pass you by.”

Tessa’s brows knit together as she glances furtively at her friends, all three sitting with glasses of untouched champagne in their hands, looking at her with varying depths of concern in their eyes. “I…” she stumbles a bit, not entirely sure what to say, her fatigue-addled mind still working to play catchup. “I just… I’m really busy right now.”

Pepper nods solemnly. “I know. Believe me, I know. But…” She drops a single delicate hand to Tessa’s knee and offers up a small, placating smile. “When was the last time you even saw your fiancé?”

Again, her brows twist in confusion. What an odd thing to ask… she lives with the man. She sees him all the time. Everyday. Or… “Yesterday,” she responds. Then, lips parting slightly, eyes drifting a bit as she loses herself in thought. “Or… maybe Tuesday?”

Wanda issues out a short scoff from the seat across from her. “Today is _Friday_.”

The look on Tessa’s face is utterly comical, her forehead screwing up even tighter. “Huh,” she mutters simply. “That’s…”

“Maybe we should’ve kidnapped her for a vacation instead of just an afternoon of shopping,” Natasha states before gulping down her champagne and grabbing the bottle for a refill. “Or a sabbatical.”

Pepper gives her an incredulous look. “I want her to get some balance in her life, but we can’t do without her for that long right now.” She swings her head back around to face Tessa. “Now,” she starts, clapping her hands together excitedly, the loud noise causing the half-awake woman by her side to startle and jump. “We’re not going to talk about work. We’re not going to take any calls or answer any texts. Not for the next few hours. And I know you know that’s hard for me too. But I’m going to do it… because today is important.” She smiles brightly at her friend and the look itself is almost enough to cause Tessa to stop staring so longingly at her phone.

“Okay,” she agrees lamely, shifting her gaze back up to Pepper. “Wedding dress…” She nods, her expression a rather humorous mix of fatigue and confusion.

Wanda sets down her champagne and shifts anxiously across from them. “But how can she pick out a dress if she doesn’t even know anything about the wedding?” she asks with a tight scowl. “They have _no_ plans.”

“I honestly figured you’d elope,” Nat mutters.

Tessa’s shoulders drop as she admits, “I’m not entirely opposed to that.”

The edges of Natasha’s lips quirk up. “But Steve won’t allow it?”

“I think he’d be okay as long as he got to be there,” she says with a shrug before scooting back into the soft leather seat and folding her leg up beneath her. “ _But_ … a wedding might be the only chance I get to see James dressed up and clean shaven. At least, I _think_ I can talk him into that.”

“Plus,” Wanda starts, hopping across the car to loom over Natasha’s shoulder. “We’d _all_ like to be there.” She gives her an oddly challenging look. “I mean, if Steve gets to be there, we all should, right?”

Pepper sips at her champagne, contented smile crossing her face as the sound of Tessa’s soft chuckle fills her ears. “It is your wedding, though,” she states simply. “If you want to run off and elope, we can always just throw a party for you two later and celebrate then.”

“The hell we can,” Natasha states, shooting the blonde a dangerous glare. “We get to be there. We’re family.”

The light smile begins to fade from Tessa’s face. “Are we?” she mutters, tone painfully hesitant.

Nat turns her glare on the brunette at her side. “Yes. We are. No matter what.”

It’s not an absurd question to ask, of course. While things had started to feel a bit more normal around the compound lately, mostly due to Tony’s crazy schedule keeping him out of Steve’s hair, it was plainly obvious that the rift created by the Accords proposal wasn’t going to heal any time soon. If anything, it seemed to be slowly growing into a deep, dark chasm.

Wanda and Vision were barely speaking, communicating mostly with guilty, furtive glances exchanged in the halls. Natasha was torn between wanting to investigate the UN attack with Steve – because that was _obviously_ the right thing to do – and the nagging need to keep her word to Tony and everyone she spoke to the day of the Accords ratification. Bruce’s opinions on the need for oversight seemed to change daily based on his mood, a thing that was making Tony and Natasha both positively livid. Bucky and Sam spent their days keeping their heads down, struggling to remain impartial as everyone around them – including random adjacent personnel with far less stake in the matter – worked to convince them to take a side. And Clint… Clint was still sticking to his guns about retirement.

As for Tessa, if she were to be totally honest with herself – which, granted, is not something she has much desire to do – then she would have to admit that work is only _part_ of the reason she’s been spending so much time away from the compound. It may technically be home, but right now, it doesn’t feel much like it.

“You know what,” Pepper interjects calmly. “I’m adding all of _that_ to the list too. No work, no interruptions, and no stressing about the Accords or anything related to them.” She turns to look Tessa dead in the eye, a thoughtful stare boring into her. “I have a very important question for you,” she says slowly, methodically. “Do you see yourself as a princess bride or a more understated bride?”

Natasha barks out a quick, loud laugh – the sound so unexpected and uncharacteristic that all eyes turn on her with amused shock. “A princess?” she snorts. “Come on.”

Tessa holds back a snigger and covers a building smile with a put-on pout. “I could be a princess if I wanted to be.”

She raises a single challenging eyebrow at her friend. “Just for that, I’m making you try on a ballgown. And I’m taking pictures. So many pictures.”

“I’d rock a ballgown,” she says with a cocky lilt.

Nat reaches up and plucks the glasses from her friend’s head, gently disentangling them from her hair. “I’ve no doubt,” she mutters before asking, “When was the last time you washed your hair?”

Tessa frowns dramatically, her hands immediately coming up to the haphazard knot of curls on her head. “Why?” she asks, reaching around to loose the strands. She struggles with the rubber band, tugging out a small chunk of hair as she mutters, “Is it that bad?”

“It’s fine,” Wanda states. “Don’t listen to her.” She hands Natasha her glass and moves around to the other side of Tessa. “Let me,” she says, slapping away her friend’s hands and combing her fingers through her hair. Tessa leans back into the gentle touch, wincing only once when Wanda snags a particularly tight tangle. “Now, then,” she starts as she begins to easily braid the thick tresses. “About this wedding that we’ll _all_ be invited to… where’s it going to be?”

Tessa shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“What about _when_ … summer, fall, winter?”

Another shrug. “Probably one of those.”

“What about the guestlist?” Natasha interjects. She shoots her a curious glance. “Will your family be invited?”

Without thinking, Tessa flicks her eyes over to Pepper. She’s aware that the woman knows a bit about her… knows that she’s a mutant, at least. Tony had mentioned long ago that he told her about it so she’d be prepared in case anyone found out and questioned how Stark Industries could be oblivious to a mutant in their midst. And Tessa had been okay with that at the time, mostly because Pepper actually drew up a nondisclosure agreement of sorts that both she and Tony signed stating they would never reveal her secret. But even though she knows that Pepper _knows_ , she really has no clue just how much Tony’s told her over the last few years… or even just over the last few months.

Pepper catches the awkward glance, her face softening as she asks simply, “Have you talked to them lately?”

She remains silent, shaking her head _no_.

“Do they know about the work you’re doing right now?” she asks soberly.

Tessa pulls in a deep breath, tired eyes opening wide as her brows shoot high. “Probably,” she issues out with a second, tight breath. “They know I work at Stark Industries. They know I’m a geneticist. And because they don’t live under a rock, I can only assume that they know about Tony’s well-publicized announcement.” She offers a dismissive shrug just as Wanda finishes securing her hair in a tight braid. “So… probably.”

Natasha releases a loud huff. “Guess we should add that to the list of things we’re not allowed to talk about today.”

Wanda shoots her a dirty look. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

The Widow doesn’t respond, instead simply dropping her head a bit as silence fills the car.

“Well,” Wanda breathes out after a long, awkward moment. “We just have to find a dress that’s either princess-y or understated, will work in any venue or locale, fits with either a big wedding or an intimate gathering, and can be worn in any season. Shouldn’t be too hard. Right?”

000

The shop really isn’t that far from the Tower, but in Manhattan midday traffic, it takes them nearly an hour to get there. And by the time they arrive, they are suspiciously all out of champagne. No one is _drunk_ of course, Pepper was careful not to pack that much booze so early in the day. But everyone is definitely feeling far more buoyant than they expected after the tense beginning to their outing.

“What about this?” Wanda asks, holding up a sleek ivory gown with a variety of shining crystals and beads sewn into the bodice. She flexes her wrist as she holds the dress out and wrinkles her nose. “It’s _heavy_.”

Natasha shakes her head – “No beading. Too distracting.” – and pulls a puffy knee-length number off the rack instead. She turns to face Tessa, holding the dress up to her chest to show it off. “Fun, but pretty. Plus, floor-length gowns hide your shoes. And we all know you’re gonna want amazing shoes.”

Tessa stifles a snicker, crooked smile perking her lips. “I don’t know,” she intones, gazing down the length of the dress.

“Then that’s a no,” she states, turning to shove it back in the rack.

“Perhaps I could help,” the slight, older woman who was tasked with being Tessa’s consultant pipes up from behind. She had been enthusiastic at first, eagerly asking Tessa what she was looking for – _I don’t really know_ – and when the wedding was – _we haven’t actually set a date yet_ – and what sort of theme or location they’d decided on – _ummm_. But as she was trying to get any ounce of direction from the bride to be, the other women began to tear through the small boutique. She’d tried to stop them once from pulling dresses themselves, but Natasha had turned on her with a terrifying sort of fire in her eyes and she backed down immediately.

“Maybe we should start small,” Pepper interjects, sensing that – just ten minutes into the appointment – they were already on the brink of chaos. She sits down beside Tessa on the giant plush sofa and says, “I thing we all know that _princess_ is not actually on the table. But were you thinking about puffy at all, or are we just looking for sleek?”

Tessa’s lips pinch together, her eyebrows quirking curiously as she tries to think of a response. Truthfully, she had no idea. She’d never really even considered what kind of wedding dress she’d buy, always assuming that if she got married at all it’d be a quick justice-of-the-peace-type ceremony where no fancy attire was required.

Pepper senses her hesitation – her confusion – and she smiles softly as she reaches out to delicately pat her friend’s hand. “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself,” she says, barely a whisper. “We’re just here to try on some pretty dresses. And if you find something you like, great. No pressure. Okay?” Tessa nods and releases a sharp breath. “Okay. Now, sleek or puffy?”

“Sleek,” she answers quickly, accenting it with a decisive nod. “Or…” Her face melts again into a sort of uncertain frown. “I don’t know.”

“No ballgowns,” Natasha states, stepping in front of them with an armful of dresses.

“I thought you wanted ballgown pictures,” Wanda teases. “For blackmail, I assume.”

Natasha soldiers on, unfazed. She knows Tessa well enough to know that if they don’t find her a dress today, she might never make it back into a boutique to buy one. Not unless they kidnap her again, that is. So they _need_ to get this right. “Elegant, but not over the top. Unique, but not… weird. Sleek, yes, but something she can still dance and move in. And nothing strapless.”

Tessa snaps her fingers. “Yes. That.”

“Why no strapless?” Wanda asks with a frown.

“She’ll just spend all day worrying about it falling down,” Nat replies before turning to Tessa and dumping the load of dresses in her lap. “Here. Try these.”

“But…”

She shakes her head and lets out an exhausted sounding sigh. “Just try them on. Then maybe we can get closer to figuring out what you like.”

Hesitantly, Tessa rises from the sofa and carries the heavy armful of gowns into the large dressing room where Martha – the seemingly inconsequential consultant – leads her. Actually, Martha turns out to be the biggest help of all. There’s no way she’d be able to figure out how some of these dresses even go on, let alone zip them, button them, and clip them into place on her own.

And Martha gives her actual guidance and critiques for each gown she slips on. While she receives notes like, “That is _hot_ ,” from Wanda on the far-too-form-fitted first option, Martha is quick to point out that, “It may be difficult to dance in this one. And you don’t look particularly comfortable.”

“I’m not,” Tessa says with a grimace as she squirms in an attempt to adjust. “This corset is poking me.”

When she comes out in a long, lightweight silk sheath with a thigh-high slit, Natasha is the first to raise an assessing brow and spout, “Forget the first one. _That_ is hot.”

Tessa spins around to glance at herself in the mirror, earning a sharp intake of breath from Pepper when she does so. “That _back_ ,” she enthuses, staring at the open, draping back to the gown.

Natasha lets out a short chuckle. “And you thought your ass wasn’t _amazing_. That dress is made for that ass.”

Tessa stares at herself long and hard in the mirror. “Yeah,” she mutters, pleased by the reaction but still oddly frowning at her reflection. “But I feel… cold.”

Martha chuckles and directs her back to the dressing room, telling her once they shut the door that, “It’s okay to save _sexy_ just for the wedding night.”

The next dress is an ivory and lace A-line with a V so deep she’s afraid that if she sneezes a boob will fly out. She stares at herself in the mirror before leaving the room, muttering to Martha, “Is it possible my friends think I’m a prostitute?”

Martha offers an amused smile as she asks simply, “Is there anything about this that _you_ like?”

Tessa chews her lip as she assesses her reflection closely. “I like the lace,” she says after a long moment, her fingertips gingerly brushing along the fabric at her hip. She pinches the lightweight skirt and pulls it out, watches as it falls back into a delicate, flowy drape around her legs. “I think I like the skirt too. Not too tight. Not too puffy.”

Martha orders her out of the sexy dress and helps her into another – a simple A-line with a sweetheart neckline and lacey cap sleeves. Tessa’s expression is noticeably different when she walks out in this dress, a relaxed smile pulling at her lips in place of the confused frown.

“That’s lovely,” Pepper offers, her eyes shining in something akin to pride as she takes in not just the dress, but the far more comfortable and confident woman standing before her in it.

Natasha rises from the sofa and slowly circles Tessa, cocking her head assessingly. “It’s nice,” she mutters. “But it’s not… _you_.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” she issues out vaguely.

“It’s too simple,” Wanda says, a sly grin on her face. “You are anything but simple.”

Tessa turns to face her reflection, the uncertain frown returning to her lips. “I wear a T-shirt and jeans almost everyday. It doesn’t get more simple than that.”

“That’s what you _wear_. But that’s not _you_ ,” she replies with a knowing wink.

Nat sidles up alongside her, gazing pointedly in the mirror for a long moment before turning to face Martha. “More lace, maybe? Or tulle?” She narrows her eyes at the unadorned bodice. “And this neckline is too high.”

“I almost fell out of the deep V you picked out,” Tessa tells her with a scoff.

She steps closer and pinches the top of the dress to pull the center down into a small plunge. “Doesn’t have to be deep,” she mutters. “Just…”

“What do you think about the color?” Wanda asks, approaching from the other side. “Do you like the pure white?”

Pepper steps over as well, all of the women now studying their her reflection closely. “Your dark hair looks beautiful with the white,” she says slowly, reaching up to pull the thick braid over Tessa’s shoulder to illustrate her point. “But I think your skin tone might be better suited to the ivory.”

Natasha’s eyebrows rise teasingly as she states, “I don’t think you can get away with wearing any shade of white.”

“Natasha!” Pepper quickly chides, glancing over at Wanda who has a hand raised to her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Actually,” Tessa starts, not at all offended by her friend’s attack on her _purity_. “I don’t really like white. Like at all. I never wear it.”

Martha steps in front of the women, a wide smile on her face and a glean in her eye. “I think I know just the thing,” she states, taking hold of Tessa’s wrist and guiding her back to the dressing room before disappearing into the back to pull another dress.

Tessa says nothing as the consultant tugs the bodice of the gown closed in back, clipping it in place. “This one’s a size too big, but it fits well enough for you to see,” she tells her. Shifting her around so she can see the back, Martha points out that, “It buttons up, no zipper. But that gives a lovely, delicate look on top of the lace paneling.” She sweeps her fingertips over the lace that covers Tessa’s shoulder blades, stretching from midback where the bodice halts up to the base of her neck and spreading out over her shoulders into dainty cap sleeves.

She turns back around to face herself head on. The skirt is nothing but light, airy tulle with large lace appliqués falling down from the tightly cinched waist like flowered vines. The neckline, while coming down in a V, is just deep enough to show a swath of skin between her breasts. But because it rises up into the caps that cover her shoulders, there seems to be no danger of revealing _too much_. She smiles as she reaches up to pluck at the lacy flower appliqués that lay atop the bodice and line the dress from the tops of her shoulders down to the bottom of the V. Then she reaches down and runs her fingers along the skirt, flipping the lightweight tulle about and watching as it softly settles back in place.

“What do you think?” Martha asks.

“It’s pink,” she mutters simply, still captivated by the dusky blush color of the dress. “I don’t really like pink.”

“Oh,” Martha replies, her tone a bit dejected. “Well, we do have it in ivory – ”

“No!” she shoots out, a small giggle spilling from her lips just after. “No. I… I _love_ this.”


	15. Avoidance

The information they’d managed to gather on Marco San Paulo bordered on non-existent. There was simply _nothing_ in the man’s past that would lead anyone to believe he’d become a super-powered mass murderer. And the utter lack of any sort of lead – especially after so many weeks of investigating – was starting to make Steve loose his shit.

“Stop it,” Bucky warns for the umpteenth time as he watches the blond stalk across his living room.

Steve halts his pacing and turns to take in Bucky’s annoyed glare. “Sorry,” he mumbles, dropping unceremoniously onto the couch. “I just can’t stop thinking about it. I know we’re missing something. I just don’t know what.”

“And not knowing something makes you nuts,” Bucky utters with a smirk. He pulls himself upright with a groan, grimacing less at the dull ache in his back and more at the humiliation still burning his ego from getting slammed to the mat earlier by Sam. He shakes his head pitifully, trying – once again – to forget about his shitty morning, and looks up at his anxious friend with a deflating sigh. “But you can’t keep wearing ruts in my floor like this.”

“I said I was sorry,” he mutters, falling back into the cushions and harshly rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Reynolds and McKay are former CIA,” Bucky says, trying to dispel some of Steve’s unease by reminding him how capable the guys he put on the case are. “If there’s something we’re missing, they’ll find it.”

“They’ve been in Brazil for over a week and they’ve still got nothing,” he mutters mostly to himself before turning on Bucky sharply. He knits his brows tensely together, narrowing his eyes. “How can you be so… calm about this?” he asks, an undercurrent of utter bewilderment to his tone. “How can you be so calm about _everything_ that’s happening right now?”

Bucky’s eyebrows pull together and he cocks his head curiously at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Buck,” he nearly exclaims, leaping off the couch and beginning to pace yet again. “People want to _outlaw_ mutants.”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, shoulders setting tensely as he scoots to the edge of the sofa. “But they can’t. They won’t.”

“They might,” he argues with a little too much confidence. “In case you hadn’t noticed, some people are even working on a way to _cure_ them.”

Bucky pulls in a tight breath and he steels his nerves as his hands automatically begin to fist at his sides. “ _Some people_?”

Steve stops in his tracks, dropping his hands to his hips as he lets out a long sigh. “I just… don’t understand,” he mutters, shaking his head despondently. “I don’t get why…” His mouth snaps shut, gaze dropping to the floor as his head continues to gravely pivot side to side. “It’s like he knew… knew that Tony was thinking about this… project. And wanted him to commit to it.” He looks back over Bucky, his gaze imploring. “A guy who’s obviously enhanced – a mutant or inhuman or… something – just attacks people out of the blue. Kills so many people. With his _special_ powers. Of course the world is going to want certain… assurances.”

Bucky’s fists unclench, his jaw ticking to the side before releasing. “You’re saying it’s not a coincidence,” he states, no hint of a question to his voice.

Steve raises his brows in response. “He was from a country that was adamantly opposed to registration and controls. So why would he fly halfway across the world to violently protest something that wasn’t even really an issue where he’s from? I mean, I guess he could’ve been protesting the fact that Brazil and others weren’t doing _enough_ to combat the mutant problem…”

“Please don’t call it that,” he replies with a sigh.

He waves a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out, exhausted note to his voice. He drops his head to his hands and scrubs at his face almost violently for a brief moment before looking back up to the man before him. “Blow people up, blame it on… enhanced people, and wait for the world to react.”

“Harsher legislation,” Steve intones. “And now, possible intervention.” He shakes his head emphatically. “Except… we were already moving in that direction anyway. I don’t think anyone really needed that extra push.”

Bucky cocks his head to the side before offering a stiff nod. “This stuff has been building for a while.”

“Exactly. The whole inhuman thing really threw people for a loop,” he states before tentatively taking a seat on the arm of the couch. He falls silent as he thinks back to just a year or two ago, when rumblings of some sort of suspicious _epidemic_ had started. They honestly didn’t pay too much attention to it at the time. Once aliens became, well, _real_ , other strange events started to seem… almost normal. At least to the enhanced 100-year-old man who had just fought off a crazed murderbot along with a merry band of superheroes.

But as the months wore on and more and more people were… changing, becoming something… different, something _inhuman_ , the number of strange reports began to steadily grow.

Suddenly there were news reports of bank robberies successfully pulled off by offenders too fast to see, let alone stop. Petty thievery was taking place all over the city, the only suspect a woman who could convince anyone of anything – even her innocence – with a single look. Superpowered criminals seemed to be coming out of the woodwork, bringing a renewed focus and concern on regulating people with abilities beyond the norm.

“Maybe Tony and Tessa should be working on curing inhumans instead of mutants,” Steve snipes after a long moment. He lets out a frustrated huff. “I don’t know. What’s really getting me is that this guy… San Paulo… he had no motive. No radical political leanings. No ties to any sort of fundamentalist groups. So… why?”

“Maybe he’s not the one behind it all,” Bucky muses. “Maybe he was just acting on behalf of someone else… someone who did have a motive.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Sure. But… we got nothing on that either. No one in his family or circle of friends has any known ties to… anything. We’ve just got… nothing.”

Bucky looks up at him, a curious glean to his eye. “What about Lobe?” he asks simply.

“What about him? We haven’t heard anything from him or about him in a year.”

His eyes narrow as the thoughts begin to whir through his brain. “He’s managed to lay low this long… makes sense that he wouldn’t let any ties to this guy show.” Steve stares at him raptly as he goes on. “He wanted to change _normal_ people into enhanced people, right? Well, here’s a guy who was _normal_ , and somehow wound up magically enhanced.”

A stern frown rolls over his face as he begins to nod. “Okay. Yeah. But… why would Lobe want to attack the UN?” His gaze turns curious. “This attack almost guaranteed that others would start work on the X-gene… identifying it, inhibiting it, destroying it. Why would he want that when he was working on getting the corner market?”

“Maybe it’s not about the gene.” He pulls in a deep breath and raises his brows. “When we were looking at him, he wasn’t trying to get access to the X-gene.” He shrugs. “Seemed like he already had access. What he really wanted was mutants.”

Steve’s eyes widen as they veer off to stare at nothing. “He wanted different… specimens.”

Bucky nods gravely. “Convince the world to root them out… makes it that much easier for him to find them.”

Steve’s head snaps toward him. “Why didn’t we think about this before?”

“Because we were too busy looking at San Paulo… just like the rest of the world.”

Steve steadily begins nodding his head as he takes everything in. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I’ll get ahold of Reynolds and McKay and give them a heads up. And I’ll call Storm in the morning. See if the X-Men have anything new on Lobe.”

Bucky almost flinches at the mention of the X-Men. “Sure,” he mutters hesitantly. “Just… don’t say anything about Tessa.”

He gives him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what they’re thinking right now. About her.” He looks up, reticent eyes gripping onto Steve’s. “She just got her family back. And… I’d hate for her to lose them over something like this.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Over _work_.”

Steve slides down the arm of the couch onto the cushion just as the cat jumps up and makes his way slyly over. He reaches out and absently begins stroking Eddie’s tiny gray head as he asks, “She hasn’t talked to them about it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But they know she works for Tony. They must know that she’s working on this.”

He shrugs – “Maybe they think she quit.” – and leans back into the couch cushions. “Or that she’s on some other project. So far as I know, she hasn’t talked to any of them since the day she healed herself and decided to play superhero.”

The bitterness in his tone isn’t lost on Steve, but he chooses to ignore it, instead shaking his head sadly as he pulls the now loudly purring kitten into his lap. “She’s gotta tell them.”

Bucky snorts out a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, sure. You tell her that.”

He bites down on his lip for a brief moment before asking, “How’s she doing with all this, anyway?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t talked to her in two days… other than a few texts that she takes hours to return.” He glances up at Steve, notes his assessing stare – the kind he gets when he’s planning an op, or trying to suss out whether an op needs to be planned. His shoulders stiffen as he asks, “You mean _why_ is she doing all this?”

He looks away quickly, training his gaze on the cat in his lap instead. “I know she wants to… maintain some control over everything. And I get that.” He shakes his head before glancing back up at the man across from him. “Honestly? I feel like I’m missing something there too.”

Bucky cocks his head at him curiously. “You think she has ulterior motives?” he asks with a raised brow.

“I don’t know,” he replies softly, expression still laced with confusion. He huffs out an exhausted sounding sigh – “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.” – and offers Bucky a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe I’m just… missing something.”

000

The meeting with the British minister goes long… about two hours long, thanks to Tony’s shit shooting. Which means that the dinner with Helen and Dr. Han from U-Gin goes long as well. Actually, they all figured that the dinner – which turns out to be two parts food to one part liquor to _just about_ one part work – would bleed well into the night. But that just means that, even though the following day is Saturday, Tessa still doesn’t manage to make it home until just after six in the evening.

“Sorry,” she says, sweeping into the apartment, not even noticing at first that Steve’s sitting on her couch along with Bucky. “I didn’t get a chance to check in at the labs yesterday because… well, things. So I had to today. And then I got sidetracked by… oh, you don’t care,” she mutters absently, setting her bags down on the kitchen counter. “I got dinner though,” she enthuses before stepping back out of the kitchen and cocking her head towards Steve. “Probably enough for you too,” she states with a wink.

He drops a small laugh. “I don’t have to stay. I just came over to keep Buck company while you were away.”

Bucky rises quickly from the sofa and makes a beeline for the kitchen, letting his fingers brush delicately over Tessa’s hip as he places a quick _hello_ kiss to her temple before pushing past. “He’s making me watch baseball,” he calls out, his voice ringing over the top of the shuffle of plastic bags as he hurriedly unpacks the food.

“Oh,” Tessa utters with wide eyes. She turns to Steve. “You know he can’t watch that game now that the Dodgers are in LA.”

Steve nods. “Treason. I know.”

“You’re never going to convert him to a Yankees fan,” she states with a shake of her head.

He pulls himself up off the couch. “I’m never gonna convert _myself_ to a Yankees fan. But I can still enjoy the game.” He peeks around the corner and into the kitchen as Tessa drops heavily into a seat at the breakfast bar. “Indian?”

She nods. “James’ new obsession,” she states, leaning over the bar to reach towards the counter. Bucky slaps her hand away as she tries to grab at some naan, and she drops back into her seat to glower.

“It’s cold,” he tells her with a biting glare as she continues to frown dejectedly. “You can wait five minutes for me to warm everything up.” He glances over at Steve. “You can stay, but only if we turn that crap off.”

“Ah,” Tessa enthuses suddenly, clapping her hands together. “We can watch a movie! We haven’t had a movie night since…” Her brow furrows, deep frown retuning to her face. “Shit. We haven’t done that in forever.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with a grin. “Well, I guess we’ve all been pretty busy. But that does sound nice.”

“Speaking of busy,” Bucky intones, as he pulls one plate out of the microwave and trades it for another. “How long are you planning on staying in Seattle next week?” He asks the question casually, not even connecting with her eyes. But she can tell from the tenor of his voice that he’s more than hesitant to hear her response.

She shrugs. “Hopefully just two days. But it’ll depend on what I find at the lab. Plus, I have a meeting with the _King of Wakanda_.”

Steve turns to her with wide eyes. “T’Challa?”

Just as she’s about to respond, a little gray fluff ball leaps into her lap, nuzzling into her for just a fraction of a moment before softly stepping up onto the breakfast bar. “That’s right,” she says, absently scratching Eddie’s behind and winding her fingers around his tail. “I forgot that you met him after the explosion.”

“Yeah, well,” he starts, dropping his head. “He didn’t seem too excited to meet me.”

Bucky turns back towards them, his eyes immediately honing in on the cat atop the counter. “Down,” he demands, leveling Eddie with a serious stare. “Now.” Then, ignoring Tessa’s pout as she reaches out for the cat, he tells Steve lamely, “That’s because he was pushing for the Sokovia Accords. And you refused to sign them.”

“Daddy’s so mean,” Tessa whispers to Ed as she snuggles him close.

He whips around to face her, raises a single, warning eyebrow at both her and the fluffball in her arms. “Daddy just doesn’t want animals walking around where we eat.”

“Steve’s here,” she snipes, still scratching the purring kitten behind his ears.

“Steve doesn’t shit in a box and then kick it around with the feet that he puts on the countertops.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “I don’t put my feet on the countertops regardless.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at her as if to say, _see?_ And she gives a small frown. “Fine. Fair enough,” she utters, leaning over to drop the cat onto the floor. “Listen to your father.”

Steve leans heavily into the counter near the doorway. “I think you guys might be getting a little too… attached to the cat,” he offers with a judgmental sigh.

Tessa glances down at Eddie, who’s now absently winding his way between the legs of her stool. “That attitude,” she says plainly, “is exactly why Uncle Sam is his favorite.”

Steve narrows his eyes playfully at Bucky. “Please tell me the cat doesn’t sleep with you.”

With a deep roll of the eyes, he replies simply, “No.”

Tessa slips off her shoe and begins gently caressing Eddie with her bare toes. “Well, _sometimes_ Daddy leaves the bedroom door open.”

He swings around to glare at her. “Would you stop?”

She breaks into a shit-eating grin. “Oh, what’s wrong, daddy?” she asks in a mocking baby voice as she climbs off the stool and bends down to sweep up the kitten. She saunters into the kitchen and holds Eddie up in front of him as he tries to plate their food. “You don’t want your friend to know that you’re just a big softy who loves his wittle baby kitty?”

“Don’t,” he warns, spoon raised as he turns on them both with a dangerous glare.

She merely pouts and sets the cat down before returning to her spot at the breakfast bar, mumbling something to the effect of, “no fun,” as she goes.

Steve sniggers, shaking his head in amusement, before turning his attention back to Tessa. “So… the King of Wakanda is coming to America to air his grievances?”

“I don’t know about that,” she issues out with a sigh, “He’s probably more enthused about helping us root out the mutants who murdered his father and then, you know, _eliminate_ them.” Both men turn their eyes on her, gazes a peculiar mix of shock and grief. She simply shrugs. “Ever since Tony announced we’re working on a _cure_ , they’re coming out of the woodwork. Supposedly, Wakanda has made some _huge_ advances in bioengineering that they’re suspiciously just now willing to share. I guess we’ll see what he has to say.”

Silence falls among them, real world problems spilling into the comfortable cocoon that Bucky and Tessa try so hard to maintain at home.

With how little time they get together nowadays, they’ve each begun doing their part to keep things light at home. If they don’t, well… any time work gets brought up, Tessa slips into a melancholy stupor. Any time they’re reminded of current events, Bucky begins grinding his teeth so hard she can hear it across the room. And any time they begin talking about the team, they both turn immediately sullen.

Most of the time Bucky thinks it’s on him to create a carefree refuge for Tessa. Because she’s been working so hard lately, she clearly needs a break from things when she’s home. And because, let’s face it, all the anti-mutant talk out there has to be killing her.

But, truthfully, he’s not doing much better, his moods shifting on a dime when any touchy subject gets broached. Like _his_ work. Sometimes it surprises him how close he’s gotten to all of these people. He’s not quite sure when it happened, or how, but this place has become his home. This job a sort of calling. And these people… well, they had all started to feel like family.

And now they’re all teetering on the edge of the unknown. The Avengers might remain a single, unpoliced unit for now… but no one knows how long that might last.

So, yeah, in these walls, they had to try and create some sort of haven, hedged off from the troubles of the outside world. Because otherwise it became too easy to believe that there was simply nothing small and nice and normal to look forward to in any of their lives.

“I bought a wedding dress,” Tessa says suddenly, breaking the solemn silence. She clears her throat awkwardly when both men turn to her with perplexed gazes. “Pepper set it up,” she continues with a shrug. “Had Nat and Wanda come into the city to shop… Anyway, you know how I get around designer dresses.”

Bucky narrows his eyes as a wide smile begins to split his face. “You bought a wedding dress?”

She nods. “It’s pink.”

“Are you supposed to tell me that?” he asks with a teasing lilt.

“Shit,” she replies, suddenly nervous. “I don’t know. I know you’re not supposed to _see_ it. But can you not even _know_ about it?”

He lets out a short chuckle – “I don’t know, doll.” – and turns to finish warming up their dinner.

Tessa gazes at his back, a contented smile pulling over her features as she rests her chin in her hand. She notices his shoulders relax, feels his energy lighten and hum with a sense of peace instead of grief and anxiety.

“Have you guys even picked a date yet?” Steve asks from her left, a hint of confusion lingering on his face.

In unison, Tessa and Bucky respond. Her stating, “No.” even as he chimes, “September.”

“Okay,” he drawls out. “Well, September is a _month_ , not a date.”

“I forgot about that,” Tessa mutters, sitting upright to accept a heated plate of veggie korma from Bucky. “September. Hm.”

Steve raises his eyebrows as Bucky hands him a plate of food as well. “Sounds like you guys got everything figured out.”

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles, spinning quickly around to grab the naan. “Yeah, there is one thing… about that…” He turns back to Steve, an oddly unreadable expression on his face but a gleaming lightness in his eyes. “We were thinking you could do the ceremony.”

Steve’s shoulders drop, his eyes going wide as he stutters out, “Wh-what?” He looks over at Bucky and watches as his expression shifts into something akin to glee, a single raised brow insisting on an answer to a question that was never officially asked. He pivots towards Tessa and sees her work to hide a smile of her own as she scoops a forkful of rice into her mouth. He cocks his head, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between the couple. “You want me to… marry you?”

Bucky shrugs, crooked grin still perking his lips. “It’s Tessa’s idea,” he states, pointing over to his fiancée.

She gulps down her food, sets down the fork, and pivots on the stool to face Steve. “You’ve been Jamie’s best friend for 100 years. Mine for… several. You know us and love us. And you are _really_ good at giving stirring speeches.”

He nearly chokes on an unexpected laugh. “Yeah, well. I figured I’d get to give a best man speech. I mean… I _hoped_.”

Bucky grabs his plate and squeezes past Steve on his way out of the kitchen, dropping a hand to his shoulder as he goes. “If that’s what you want, we can find someone else.”

“Yeah,” Tessa says, picking up her food as well and moving over to the couch. “Clint would be great at it.”

Bucky lets out a snort as he sets his plate on the coffee table. “He’d never shut up. The ceremony would be four hours long.”

“Natasha?” she asks, folding her legs up beneath her as she settles into the corner of the sofa.

Bucky glances around the room, just now noticing that he left his beer in the kitchen. “She’d probably just throw the rings at us and say, ‘There. You’re married.’”

“Tony?” she shouts after him as he reaches around a still-frozen Steve to grab his drink from the kitchen counter. He leans out of the doorway and glares at her. “Sam?” she offers with a saccharine smile.

“I’ll do it,” Steve says suddenly, coming out of his stupor right as Bucky prepares to viciously elbow him in the ribs in the hopes of eliciting a response.

“Great,” he says, patting his friend lightly on the arm as he heads back in the other room. “Now pick out a movie before the tikka whatever gets cold.”

000

It’s barely nine by the time the movie ends, but Steve knows better than to overstay his welcome. So he scoots out the door the minute the credits begin to roll, leaving Bucky with a barely conscious Tessa curled into his side. He tries not to wake her as he slips away and begins cleaning up dinner, but she’s long gone by the time he returns to the couch, the sound of the shower running echoing through their open bedroom door.

It may only be nine, but he has no qualms at all about shutting off the lights and heading to bed to wait for her. He contemplates leaving the door open for Eddie, knowing that Tessa loves nothing more than to taunt him from under the covers, giggling maniacally when he pounces on her wiggling, quilt-covered toes. But it’s been so long since they’ve slept in the same bed together that he can’t help the selfish desire to have her all to himself. So he shuts the door, changes clothes, climbs into bed, and waits.

The minute he hears the water shut off and the shower door squeak open, he carefully closes his book and watches for her to move out of the steam-filled ensuite. But the moment he sees her stumble out of the bathroom, the eager smile falls from his lips.

“You okay?” he asks, deep creases building along his furrowed brow as she collapses onto the bed beside him. She had looked exhausted when she first rolled in this evening – not that that was anything out of the ordinary lately. And she passed out about twenty minutes into the movie, her sleep so deep that he had to shift her in his lap to keep her from snoring. But as he looks at her now, observing the stunted quality to her movements, the seeming heaviness to her limbs, the off-color pallor to her skin…  “You look like you’re getting sick.”

Tessa huffs out a small, bitter laugh as she rolls onto her back, her wet hair splaying across the pillows. She gazes up at him and cocks an eyebrow playfully. “You’re saying I look like shit.”

He sidles down the bed so that he’s lying beside her and she shifts to her side to face him. They’re just inches apart, eyes fixed on one another. “I’m saying you look completely worn out,” he mutters  before reaching up to run his fingers through her hair. He combs out the wet, wavy strands and breathes in the thick scent of her honeysuckle shampoo.

She offers a warning, albeit weary, look. The same look she gives him almost every time he expresses any kind of concern. The same look she gives just before stating, _I’m fine._ Or, _stop worrying._ Or, “I’m just tired.”

He nods slowly, stiffly, utters the phrase that he keeps hoping she’ll someday take to heart. “I’m worried about you.”

“Like I’ve never heard that before,” she says with a slight laugh as her red-rimmed eyes fall shut.

“I’m serious,” he says in a no-nonsense tone. He props himself up on his elbow, looming over her.

Maybe he worries too much sometimes. And not just about her… about everyone he cares for. Sure, he can usually hide it when he wants – decades of Hydra beating the emotion out of him gave him that skill at least. But Bucky has always been a worrier.

It’s why he insisted on walking his little sister to and from school everyday, even when she was well past old enough to make it on her own. Why he often followed Steve around – especially when he was in one of his _looking for trouble_ moods – just in case he got into it with someone. It’s why he joined the Commandos in the first place… to keep an eye on his best friend, to keep him out of trouble. And why he stayed with them all ‘til the end… to have the backs of the other friends – _brothers_ – he gained while there. And it’s why, even when all he wanted to do after escaping Hydra was to curl up and die in relative peace, he chose instead to stay with Steve, and take part in the weird world of the Avengers.

So, yeah, he worries. About the people he loves. And maybe sometimes that can be a bit annoying and he can come across as overbearing. He’s aware of that. He might not really care, but he knows it’s a thing. But this… this isn’t that. This isn’t a problem with him. It’s a problem with _her_. And the fact that she can’t see that, or won’t admit to it, is really starting to get to him.

He harshly taps her bare shoulder with the back of a metal finger to get her to open her eyes and look up at him. “You can’t keep doing this, baby,” he says, voice deep and stern. “Not anymore.”

Her eyes blink lazily open and her face screws up into a confounded grimace. “Doing what? Working?”

“Tessa,” he breathes out, shaking his head admonishingly. “You need to take care of yourself.” She opens her mouth to protest so he jumps back in, cutting her off. “I know I always say that. And I _always_ mean it. But, baby…” He shifts just a bit, hauling himself higher above her prone body. “You’ve only got one kidney.”

She sits upright, nearly knocking him over with the swift movement, and stares at him incredulously. “My kidney’s fine,” she tells him, her tone decisive.

He follows her lead, pulling himself up as well. And he stares at her for a long moment, his eyes digging into her gaze, roving over her face, working to see if she’s telling the truth or just telling him what he wants to hear. “Dr. Hammond called yesterday,” he says finally. “She was looking for you… said you missed the appointment that you already rescheduled twice.”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. If anything, her gaze takes on an almost challenging quality. “I’ve been busy. You know I’ve been busy. But I promise you,” she says, reaching over and taking his hand in hers. “I’m _fine_.”

“Mm-hmm,” he mutters, jaw ticking to the side as he gives a bitter nod.

“If I tell you not to worry are you gonna get pissed at me?”

His eyes widen. “Yeah, probably.” He shakes his head sadly and lets out a deep sigh. Then, turning a knowing gaze on her, he states, “You’re squinting right now like you’re staring into the sun.”

She frowns at him blankly. “The light’s right behind you.”

He raises a single, perceptive brow before twisting around to turn off the bedside lamp. The light from the nearly full moon just outside their window is enough for him to see that, despite the sudden dimness of the room, her eyes are still narrowed painfully. “Headache?”

Her face turns stony, icy glare shooting from those same pained eyes. The shift in expression – from tired to dangerous, threatening – is so sudden and so… _not_ intimidating, that Bucky has to bite back a laugh. “That doesn’t mean I’m sick,” she tells him bluntly. “Or that my kidney’s failing. Or that I’m not taking care of myself.”

His amusement drops off quickly at hearing her words. “That last one,” he retorts bitterly. “That’s _exactly_ what it means.”

“Can we please not do this right now?” she asks, falling back into the bed and twisting around to bury her face in the pillow.

He stares down at her, long and hard, and feels a biting vitriol seep to the surface. “When do you want to do it, Tessa? Because this is the first time I’ve even seen you in days.”

She lets out a pained sort of squeak before rolling over to face him. “I really _can’t_ do this right now,” she tells him, a deep pleading to her tired eyes. “Please?”

The bitter scowl lifts just a bit from his face, leaving a weary frown in its place. He shifts back to his elbow and reaches down with his left hand to gingerly press his metal thumb between her eyes, moving it in a tight circle to try and alleviate some of the pain that she simply won’t admit is even there.

_How can you be so damn stubborn?_ he wants to say. _How can you do this to yourself – to me – time and time again?_ But those words would only spark an argument – the same argument that they so often seem to have. The same argument that no one ever ends up winning.

He huffs out a long, deep sigh. “I need you,” he says simply, softly, the words coming out in a mere whisper. She says nothing, just curls in closer, her hand grasping his metal wrist to keep him pressed to her as she shuts her eyes and snuggles into his chest. “I know you’re busy. I know work needs you. But I need you more.”

_If you won’t take care of yourself for you, do it for me._

“Okay,” she mumbles into him. “I’m sorry.”

He slides down beside her and wraps his right arm around her, pulling her close. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want…” His lips press shut, pursing tightly together as he contemplates whether or not to tell her what he really does want. He feels her stiffen in his grasp, waiting. She’s waiting for him to finish, steeling herself.

_Not now_ , he tells himself, tries to convince himself. _Not now._

But if not now, when?

“Steve and I were talking earlier – ”

“About me?” she interrupts bitingly, pulling away and sitting upright once again.

He pulls in a settling breath through his nose, tries to ignore her defensive tone, knowing it’ll only deepen once he’s finished. “Steve and I were talking earlier,” he tries again as he too sits up. “And he was asking how you’ve been… how you’ve been dealing with things.” His shoulders drop as he leans back into the headboard. “And I realized that I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“I’m fine,” she retorts blandly. “I’ve been dealing fine.”

“He’s gonna call Storm in the morning.” Her brows shoot up, the startled expression morphing into a warning glare in a matter of seconds. “He’s just checking to see if they’ve picked up anything on Lobe,” he says with a sigh. “I told him not to mention you.”

“Okay,” she mutters with a tight nod.

He rolls his head to the side and looks at her with weary, almost defeated eyes. “You’ve been avoiding them since Stark made his little announcement.” He watches as her gaze flicks away, throat bobbing as she quickly swallows down any assent. “It feels like you’re avoiding me too.”

“I’m not,” she argues, quickly meeting his eyes once more. His expression is so dejected, his stare so dull, that she feels a sharp stab to the gut. Her breath actually hitches as she repeats, “I… I’m not.”

“This isn’t like before,” he starts slowly. “This isn’t just you working too hard or too much. This is something else. Something’s eating at you, baby. I know it is.”

She stares deeply into his eyes, wills him to believe her when she says, “It’s work,” offering a forced casual shrug to punctuate the words.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

She lets out a long, labored sigh and presses her eyes tightly shut for a brief moment. When she opens them again, her gaze rises steadily and she looks him dead in the eye. “We made a deal once, remember? That we’d never make each other talk… about the bad things.” She scoots closer to him and slowly brings her hand up to the center of his chest, pressing lightly to his sternum so that the steady, comforting beat of his heart reverberates through her palm. “The things in our past that we don’t… can’t…” Her eyes flick away, jaw ticking as she bites down on the inside of her cheek.

“If there’s something I should know,” he starts, bringing his hand to his chest and easily intertwining his fingers with hers. “Something I _need_ to know? Just tell me.”

She looks back up at him, her eyes dark but also soft, imploring. “Please?”

He gives her hand a quick squeeze and says, tone deep and commanding, “I _need_ you to talk to me.”

She says nothing for a moment more, simply holding his weighty gaze. Then she nods, a barely perceptible shift of her head. And with her chin defiantly jutted, she states, “Just you. No one else can know,” before cracking herself open and letting the secrets spill out.


	16. A Goodbye Without Words

“Baby, I gotta go,” he says softly, small smile tugging at the side of his mouth near her jawline. She lets out a little moan and he ducks his head just enough to capture her lips with his. He nips her bottom lip. “I have to go,” he repeats, still making no attempt to remove her from his lap so he can rise from the sofa.

Tessa leans back, flinging her hair to the side. The dark, dense mass of curls and waves is half covering her face, half covering the slight frown as she pouts, “This was supposed to be our day together. Our _one_ day.”

It’s true, today was supposed to be theirs – a lazy morning spent lingering in each other’s arms, a far-too-filling breakfast that neither of them would recover from for hours, movies and cuddling on the couch – maybe a little fooling around – until it was time to eat again and then pass out in bed. A perfect day of just the two of them, locked safely away from the rest of the awful world.

But then Steve called late last night and said that Reynolds was back with a report and Bucky needed to prep for a mission. And just like that, their _one_ day together was cut horribly short.

“I know, baby,” he breathes out softly before leaning down and gently nipping along her neck. It’s strange to say, makes no sense really, but ever since their talk the other night – ever since she laid herself bare before him in a way she never had before, confessing her secrets and her closely held plans… ever since she _finally_ , truly let him in – he swears she’s never tasted sweeter.

“Ugh,” she moans dramatically, pulling back just the slightest bit. “You’re the worst.”

He lifts his head to look her admonishingly in the eye, an amused eyebrow quirked. And he tries to argue… to say that the whole reason they only had this _one_ day in the first place is that she’s always in the city or in her lab or in one of her offices – or in Seattle, where she’s set to fly off to in the morning – and never here, at home, in his arms.

But before he can say a word, she reaches down to grab the hem of her T-shirt and quickly pulls it up over her head. She shakes out her hair as she tosses the shirt across the room, gives him a sly smile, leans in close, and whispers softly, “Don’t go.”

And he can’t help it. He really just… can’t.

He wraps his flesh and bone arm around her back and pulls her close, her bare breasts pressed tightly up against him so that he can feel her nipples prick his chest through the fabric of his pullover. His other hand, the metal one tightens on her hip, keeping her safely on his lap, inching her closer to him as she straddles him, her bent knees squeezing his hips. It’s his turn to moan, low and guttural, as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. She leans back and his face falls to her breasts, his lips peppering her skin. Her hands drift down to the waistband of his jeans and his hips buck at the touch.

The slight sound of grinding metal can be heard as his bionic hand tightens its grip on her hip, the fingers then flexing to release. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He’s worked so hard over the years to calibrate his hand to her, force it to caress instead of punch, cup instead of grab, comfort instead of hurt. But Hydra tech was made for war, not love, and moments like this ensure he never forgets. He can never get too carried away when he’s with her, never completely let go, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much she drives him to the precipice. He could hurt her. And that would kill him.

She falls further into him and presses her lips to his neck, just below his ear. “Don’t,” she whispers, chiding him for the millionth time. _You could never hurt me._

He breathes out into her hair, runs his flesh hand up the middle of her bare back. He…

“Buck, you ready? _Shit_ ,” comes quickly from their right. They didn’t hear the door open, but they hear it slam closed fast and hard. From the other side, “Sorry. Sorry,” filters to them as they remain on the sofa, Tessa still straddling Bucky’s lap, now sitting bolt upright. “Sorry,” again, barely a mumble.

“You didn’t lock the door,” he says simply to her, reaching to his left and grabbing a lightweight fleece throw to wrap around her bare body.

“He totally saw my boobs,” she says with a mischievous grin. “Steve,” she shouts at the closed door to their apartment, “did you just see my boobs?”

Bucky snorts out a laugh as he gently pushes her back. Her thighs are still pressed tightly against his, and he can feel the heat radiating off of her. If she doesn’t get off him _now_ he’s not going to be able to pull himself together.

“I… no,” comes from the hallway. And Tessa throws her head back, beautiful, messy hair cascading out as she breaks into laughter. She leans back so far that she almost falls onto the floor, would have if the metal arm hadn’t been cradling her lower back still. She gracelessly flips over, kicking her right leg up and over Bucky’s head, almost nailing him in the face as she climbs off his lap. She uses an arm to brace herself on the floor, but she still manages to trip over the blanket in her other hand as she tries to leap up.

“Don’t antagonize him,” Bucky says, leaning forward to steady her. But he can’t catch her, she’s too fast as she bounces up and bolts for the door. He watches as she moves, fisting the two ends of the thin blanket that’s wrapped around her with one hand as she flings the door open with the other.

“You liar,” she laughs, nearly squeals at the man in the hall. “You dirty old man.”

Steve turns away as soon as the door opens, a red blush extending down his neck, bright enough that Bucky can see it from the couch. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, looking up and around the hallway, anywhere to avoid her far-too-amused grin.

“Did you see them?” she asks, voice low and conspiratorial. “How’d they look?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” he mumbles, running a hand down the length of his crimson face. “Don’t you lock your door?”

“Don’t you knock?” Bucky asks, still sitting in the same spot on the sofa.

“Don’t you have a bedroom? With a bed?” Steve shoots back, not stating the obvious – he never knocks, not on Bucky’s door. Probably never will.

“We wore it out,” Tessa says, trying so hard not to giggle that she’s actually rocking back and forth on her tiptoes in the doorway. “Broke it.”

Bucky snorts from behind. Part of him is pained for his friend, suffering such humiliation. But it’s a very small part. The much larger part of him absolutely _loves_ that his girl does this. And the fact that she’s doing it now – laughing and smiling and joking when so much in their lives has been working to keep that beautiful lightness at bay – that’s got a sudden warmth spreading up through his chest that very nearly chokes him.

“Hey,” they hear from behind Steve as Sam walks up, “Are we going?” He takes a moment when he gets to the door, looks Tessa up and down, takes in the blanket wrapped around her, assesses the situation. He peers into the apartment, curious brow raised. “He’s gonna need a minute, huh?” he asks Tessa, cocking his head in the direction of Bucky.

“I’m good,” Bucky says, finally getting up from the couch.

“Steve saw my boobs,” Tessa tells Sam.

“I did not,” Steve lets out, a petulant sort of whine. “Can we go?” he asks his friend as he steps up behind Tessa.

“So just side-boob?” she asks feigning seriousness, a thoughtful frown on her face.

“How’d they look?” Sam asks from behind, mirthful eyes alight.

Bucky leans in front of Tessa, blocking her with his metal arm as he grabs the door and glares at Sam. Ever since the Falcon kicked his ass in a couple training runs the week before – laying him out flat on the mat like no one other than Steve had ever been able to do – the _hate_ end of their love-hate relationship had been bubbling up in Bucky’s gut. His eyes narrow dangerously as he growls out a simple, “No.”

“Obviously,” she says, ignoring Bucky’s intimidating display and resting her chin on his metal bicep, “they looked amazing.” She smiles wide as Steve and Bucky roll their eyes in unison.

“We’ll meet you down there,” Steve says, turning quickly and heading for the elevator.

Sam, still laughing, shoots Tessa a wink. “Good luck with the royal family tomorrow,” he offers with a teasing lilt, before following Steve out.

“You’re so mean,” she says, turning to face Bucky. “Everyone knows you love him.” She pokes him in the side and turns to hunt down her shirt.

“Sam?” he asks, shutting the door and leaning against it, gazing at her naked back as she drops the blanket and pulls the old gray Stark Industries T-shirt over her head. “Yeah, he’s my favorite,” he intones sarcastically.

She walks back over to him and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest, resting his lips on the top her head. He breathes in her scent, closing his eyes as though he can hold tighter to her smell if he eliminates his other senses. He needs to hold onto it, tuck it away and save some for later. This is set to be the longest mission he’s ever gone on with the Avengers – a week at the least, probably more like two or three… maybe more.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she mutters into him, squeezing him a bit tighter.

“You’re leaving for Seattle first thing,” he points out. “You’ll be too busy working to even notice I’m gone.”

She pulls away and looks up at him with an incredulous expression. “I’ll be gone for two days… you’re leaving for weeks!”

He lets out a short chuckle and brings her back into his embrace. “Well, somebody’s gotta be here for Ed,” he murmurs into her hair. “After seeing Bruce with Romanov’s cat, I don’t think he can handle more than a quick check in to make sure he’s got food and water.”

“Poor Eddie,” she laments, cocking her head to the side so she can gaze at the mound of gray fluff splayed out on the floor, bathed in a swath of late morning sunlight.

Bucky presses her body deeper into his, gripping her a little tighter once more before finally letting go. “Take care of him while I’m gone.” He looks down at her, into those big, beautiful green eyes, and he feels his stomach clench. “Be good.”

“Always,” she smiles up at him. Then, smile dropping from her lips, “Be careful.”

He kisses her once, a long, tender goodbye that neither of them ever dare say with words. Then he leans down to pick up the bag by the door. And he leaves.

000

Only Reynolds comes back for the debrief on San Paulo, McKay sticking around Brasilia just in case. They hadn’t really found much. After nearly two weeks scouring the area he was from – learning all about his life, his family, his job, his routine – they still had very little to go on. Until the day before yesterday.

They’d heard rumors that San Paulo, over the past year, had developed an interest in the outdoors. Whenever he got the chance, he’d head out to one of his favorite destinations, Mato Grosso do Sul, where he could hike, spelunk, and scuba all in the same weekend. It was here that the two former CIA agents were finally able to pick up on a lead.

Every time San Paulo came to the area, he met up with the same group of people – five _foreigners_ , as the locals referred to them – who trekked out into the wilderness without a guide. They remembered the group well precisely because of that. It was recommended that everyone have a tour guide in the area, especially foreigners.

“Most of the meetings took place in Bonito,” Steve starts once Reynolds finishes up the debrief. He glances around the room to make sure everyone’s still on task. “They claimed to be a group of ecology students studying throughout Brazil and neighboring Bolivia. Said that Bonito was where they preferred to meet to catch up.”

“I thought you said this guy was in construction,” Natasha points out.

Reynolds nods, jumping in before Steve can respond. “He was. And he had no real formal education, never studied ecology – or anything else.”

Steve steps in with, “It was obviously a cover. That’s all they ever shared with anyone. No one knew who any of them really were – ”

“And none of them could give us a decent description of the others in the group either,” Reynolds interrupts with an irritated scoff. “Just that there were five or six of them, all men. With apparently utterly forgettable faces.”

Steve lets out a long, tired sigh. He and Reynolds had been prepping since late last night and he was more than eager to finish the debrief so he could send the group on their way – and he could collapse face first into his bed. “Primary objective…” He taps at the holoscreen in front of him to pull up some pictures of the wilds of Mato Grosso do Sul. “If we can’t figure out who he was meeting with, we need to at least find out where they went. Once the group left the town… it’s anyone’s guess where they disappeared to.”

“None of the locals had a clue?” Bucky asks.

Reynolds shakes his head. “They were mostly just pissed that this group of tourists came into their town and didn’t pay to stay at one of their hotels or hire one of their tour guides.”

“Bonito’s a small city,” Steve picks back up. “And they thrive on ecotourism, so…” His eyes bounce between the four people seated at the table in front of him. “You will be going in as a small group of friends, just looking for a little adventure.”

“Great,” Bucky deadpans.

“Hey, look,” he says, indicating the photos on the screen. “It’s beautiful there. Lots of snorkeling. And caves,” he offers with a wink.

Bucky scoffs loudly. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?”

“At least there’s no snow,” Natasha says as she drops the folder of travel documents onto the table and glares over at Steve. “But really? We have to be two couples? Can’t we all just be friends?”

He grins widely at her. “More believable this way.”

She turns to Bucky and stares him down. “Just so you know, I plan on wearing very little throughout this mission… in the interest of fitting in. Try to keep your hands off me, Barnes.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Actually,” Steve interjects as he awkwardly clears his throat, “Buck, you’ll be paired with Atkinson. Romanov, you’re with Robson. I want to put experience with… inexperience.” He gives Bucky a quick, apologetic look before turning back to Natasha. “But everyone should keep their hands off each other regardless,” he states with authority.

“If it’s just the four of us going,” Bucky starts, arms folded tensely across his chest, “What’s birdbrain doing here?” He tosses a quick glance across the room at Sam, whose face falls at the jab.

“Hurtful,” he mutters before stepping forward and dropping into a seat at the conference table.

Steve hits a few buttons and pulls up some schematics on the holoscreen. “Sam’s going to walk you through how to use the Redwing.”

“Yeah, and you better not break him,” he pouts.

“There’s a lot of area to cover out there,” Steve goes on, falling easily into his commanding Captain voice. “Buck, you’ve got experience moving over just about any terrain. And I want someone who can pull together a plan of attack if a base is found. Also, you’re the only one here who speaks Portuguese.” He raises a single assessing brow as he looks his friend up and down. “Try to stay in character and not scare the hell out of the locals. And hide that arm.”

“Gonna be hot as hell,” Robson chimes in from Bucky’s left.

Steve looks to Natasha next. “Romanov, I know you’ve done some jobs along the Amazon, so the terrain shouldn’t be too foreign to you either. And I’m guessing you’re the only one who’d actually scuba dive in a cave, so the believability factor here is gonna fall on you. Keep everyone in line and in cover.”

“Also,” Sam utters quickly, “You’re the only one I trust with my baby.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t call it that.”

“He loves you,” he says with a smile. He flicks his fingers across the holoscreen in front of them and brings up a handful of overhead shots of Natasha that had been captured by the Redwing. “See? You’re his muse.”

“How much did that thing cost?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

He shrugs. “Can’t put a price on friendship.”

“I need to know how much my wages will be garnished after I throw it into one of the caves.”

Sam falls back in his seat, looking positively stricken. And Steve has to pull in a deep, settling breath to keep from laughing. “Like I said,” he states, giving Natasha a warning look, “there’s a lot of area to cover. And a lot of terrain that you might not be able to make it through. Do not break the Redwing.”

“I’ll do my best,” she utters with a saccharine smile.

He shakes his head in frustration and turns to Atkinson. “You’ve done some of the most intense and dangerous races in the world,” he says, raising a curious eyebrow at the small blonde. “The Barkley Marathon – ”

“I did that twice,” she interrupts swiftly. “Only finished once, though.”

He gives her an impressed half smile. “I didn’t even know what it was. But it sounds awful… 100 miles through rough landscape in just 60 hours?” She nods. “And there was one in South Africa… 250 miles in five days… through forests, grasslands, and canyons.”

“I’ve been training for the Patagonian Expedition,” she tells him with a wide, eager smile. “Working mostly on my climbing skills. And map reading. They drop you in the Chilean wilderness for ten days, and you don’t know the route until you start. But you’re almost guaranteed to trek through swamps, glaciers, forests…”

Bucky looks over at her with an almost disgusted expression. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

She shrugs. “I like a little adventure every now and then.”

“And that’s what makes you prefect for this op,” Steve says with a proud sort of countenance. “If Redwing does find something out there, I’m counting on you to figure out how to get to it.”

“What about me,” Robson chimes in, excitedly sitting upright in his seat.

Steve cocks his head at the man and lets out a soft hum. “You’re… really tall,” he says with a nod. “And I prefer even numbers of people.”

Sam chokes on a laugh at the man’s crestfallen expression.

“You navigated rougher terrain than this in Afghanistan,” Bucky tells him blandly. “And you did it with a hell of lot of gear on your back.”

Nat shoots him a sly smile. “You get to be our pack mule,” she states simply.

He looks up at Steve, who just shrugs. “If you guys do end up finding something… and if the place houses hostiles… whatever weapons and gear you need, you’ll have to bring in yourselves.”

“And in the meantime,” Atkinson says with an amused cadence. “You can help us reach stuff on the top shelves.”

Natasha’s eyes widen as she gives a short nod. “Very useful,” she intones before looking over at Sam. “Alright, _birdbrain_ ,” she mutters with a grin. “Show us how your baby flies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super long, I know. And, yeah, Tessa's secret is yet to be revealed... But we're definitely working towards something here, I promise. I'm really curious what you guys think so far... and where you think things are headed. So feel free to comment... And as always, thanks for reading!


	17. It is Character.

She’s not running just a little late. No. Tessa glances at her phone, completely ignoring the multiple _where are you?_ texts from Tony, noting only the time. She’s over an hour late.

T’Challa, the new King of Wakanda, and his sister, Princess Shuri, arrived over an hour ago. Tessa was supposed to meet them the moment they got in and lead them on a tour of the facilities before sitting down for the requested meeting.

And how is it exactly that it no longer seems odd for her to have foreign dignitaries and heads of state – and apparently royal families – requesting meetings with her?

She tugs off her heels – _heels_ because Tony insisted that she dress the part of a Stark Industries division head today – and begins to run barefoot down the long corridor towards the operations wing where all of the offices and conference rooms are. It’s a hell of a run. She’d been on the complete opposite side of the campus, going over some particularly fascinating results with Dr. Ramos, and utterly lost track of time.

_Wouldn’t have happened if I had a halfway decent assistant here,_ she thinks to herself, pining for Claire in the way she typically does when met with the woefully inadequate support staff in Seattle. _Not fair_ , she reminds herself quickly. _You should be able to get yourself to a meeting on time… on your own._

She has no clue which conference room they have booked, but it turns out not to be a problem as she spots the small group the moment she races around the corner and into the operations sector. “I’m not sure where Dr. Sullivan is…” she hears Tony murmur, obviously agitated, just as she begins to pull up behind him.

Her bare feet squeak on the tile floor as she brings herself to a halt. Her breath comes in quick, short gasps as she shoots out, “I’m here. I’m here.”

Tony turns slowly to look at her, his expression positively seething. His eyes bounce from her cherry red face down to the pumps dangling from her fingers, then back up again. “So you are,” he announces, an acrid quality to his voice that almost makes her wince.

She drops her shoes and hurriedly slips them back on, extending out a hand towards the pair of new faces before her as she sputters out, “I’m so sorry. I was in the labs… I lost track… I’m just so sorry.”

The young woman steps up first, grasping Tessa’s hand tightly. With a wide, sly smile she utters, “I do the exact same thing. All the time. It’s no bother.”

“Dr. Sullivan,” Tony pronounces, “This is Princess… uh…” he stumbles a bit upon receiving a chiding glare from the young woman. “Shuri. Just Shuri.”

“Just Shuri,” she agrees, giving Tessa’s hand a final squeeze. “And my brother,” she says, stepping back. “Just T’Challa.”

Tony clears his throat from behind. “King of Wakanda.”

“Yes,” the man says simply, “But T’Challa will do.”

Tessa finally manages to get her heel worked into her shoe and she stands upright to fully take in the pair before her. The young woman – girl, really – continues to smile. There’s an almost buoyant excitement bubbling off of her, a light, joyful vigor that Tessa can feel dancing in the air around them. A sort of innocent brightness seeps from her eyes, pecked with an almost devious, cunning quality that Tessa immediately recognizes. There’s something about her that seems just oh-so familiar, though she can’t quite figure out why that is.

And then there’s T’Challa… the tall, dark, handsome man that stands square shouldered in front of her. He is a sight to behold. She had seen pictures of him before, sure. The new king – and he truly was _new_ , having been formally made king no more than a month ago – had already been making a name for himself, and his country, by pledging to open their borders in the hopes of giving aid where needed. So there’s been no shortage of media coverage focused on him of late.

But pictures don’t do him justice. This man has a sort of allure about him – not just a charisma, but an overt commanding quality – that you have to be in the presence of to appreciate. She tries to reach out and discern his energy, but a hint of amusement – she assumes from her ridiculous entrance – is all that she can sense. He’s somehow… closed off, not letting _anything_ through. And that just makes him all the more fascinating to her.

“I…” she stutters, a bit thrown by her inability to get a read on the king. “Again… I… I’m so sorry.”

He merely laughs, a wide, joyful smile that mirrors his sister’s pulling at his face. “It is no trouble,” he says, thick accent curling about the words. “I’m used to coming second to science.” He throws a sidelong glance at Shuri, earning him an eyeroll from the princess. He leans in close to Tessa, a deep, rich tenor to his voice as he says, “I am very pleased to meet you, Dr. Sullivan.”

They settle into one of the smaller conference rooms, an assistant with an utterly forgettable name – Bob or John or Joe – hurriedly setting everyone up with coffee, water, juice, and croissants. For Tessa’s part, she slams a small bottle of water when no one’s looking, eyeballs the pastries – because she’s pretty sure she hasn’t eaten since late last night – and sinks down into the oversize, ergonomic chair with a steaming cup of sugar-coffee in hand.

She likes these two… she’s decided that already. But her guard can’t be let down. She’s met plenty of people she’s _liked_ over the last several weeks. Plenty of people whom, under any different sort of circumstance she would have enjoyed talking to or grabbing a beer with or even just quietly gazing at in awe – like the Prime Minister of Canada. But ultimately all of those people ended up asking for the same thing, wanting nothing more than for her to give them the _one thing_ she was most reluctant to give. And there’s no reason to believe that these people will be any different.

She lets out a soft sigh and steels herself for the inevitable, waiting for everyone to get seated before pulling herself upright, back stretched tight as she inquires, “What is it that we can do for you?”

T’Challa gives her an almost suspicious look… it’s one that, she imagines, mirrors her own. “It may be more what _we_ can do for _you_ ,” he offers with a raised brow. “You have heard that we recently opened up our borders?” She gives a quick nod in response. “Tell me, Dr. Sullivan, how much do you know about our country?”

Her gaze shifts over to Tony, who’s tapping a pen rather impatiently on the table. As soon as their eyes meet, he gives her a noncommittal shrug. She turns back to T’Challa. “I know that your country has Vibranium,” she states. “Or… it did.”

Shuri lets out a sharp laugh. “But do you even know what Vibranium is?” she asks in an almost petulant tone.

Tessa sucks in a sharp breath. “I tried playing frisbee with Captain America’s shield once and almost broke my hand.” From her left she can see Tony roll his eyes as he lets out a small scoff. “I’ve never really studied it, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”

T’Challa drops a calming hand over the top of Shuri’s before she can continue speaking. “Wakanda has more than people outside our borders know. For hundreds of years we have been learning and developing…” He pauses and gives Tessa an oddly meaningful stare. “We have made many advances in science and technology. And now… we are willing to share some of that with the world.”

Tony clears his throat and scoots in closer to the wide conference table. “It’s not as simple as just dumping plans onto the internet, of course. There’s a process to releasing new technologies. Testing them under different circumstances, working with them in different arenas to make sure they hold up to everyday practices. Make sure they’re… helpful… profitable.”

“Well, the profit is not what we’re most interested in,” T’Challa states as he casually leans back into his chair.

“The nation of Wakanda has agreed to partner with Stark Industries on a number of projects that will put to use their advanced nanotechnology.”

Tessa’s eyes widen. “Nanotechnology? What projects?”

“We haven’t figured all of that out yet,” Tony replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Still in negotiations.”

“But,” T’Challa says, deep brown eyes connecting with her. “We have already had several advancements in the medical field.” He shifts his gaze to his sister as he goes on. “Shuri has developed many different iterations of nanobots that are able to repair tissue on a cell by cell basis.”

“And I plan to do the same on a genetic scale,” she says with a quick wiggle of her eyebrows.

“You have…” Tessa starts, her brow furrowing as she works to find the words. “You’ve developed _nanobots_?” Shuri nods excitedly. “But that… that technology is _years_ away. Decades.” The young woman smiles slyly and shakes her head, _nope_. Tessa leans forward, narrowing her eyes. “You’re telling me that you have the ability to programmatically go in and repair damage on a cellular level?”

“Yes, Dr. Sullivan,” she replies with a lilt. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

“And you want to… share that technology with us?” She nods. “Why?”

“ _Why_?” Tony repeats with a huff. “Maybe because we’re the biggest and best in the world.”

“Actually,” T’Challa interrupts with a grin. “I was told that _you_ , Dr. Sullivan, are among the best in the world.”

Her nose wrinkles, face pulling awkwardly as she asks, “Who told you that?”

He laughs, as does the young woman to his right. “Dr. Sullivan,” she intones, “You have worked on some of the most exciting research in the modern genetic field. You successfully irradiated the M-gene to cause it to mimic the effects of the X-gene!”

“Who told you _that_?” she spits out, suddenly serious, vehement.

The smile drops from Shuri’s face and she recoils… just a bit. “Just because we have kept ourselves sheltered away from your world doesn’t mean that we haven’t watched and learned from it.”

T’Challa pats her hand reassuringly. “What my sister is trying to say is that we have not been as cut off from the world as people on the outside may think.”

“But that research was…” she shakes her head. “It was restricted.”

“Then why did one of your researchers come to us to sell us samples of your irradiated genes?”

Her eyebrows shoot up perilously high as a disgusted scoff escapes her lips. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters under her breath, followed quickly by a loud, “Ow!” when Tony’s heel connects hard with her shin under the table.

“Doesn’t matter how they know that you’re… great,” he tells her, one warning eyebrow raised. “What matters is that they want to work with us. With you.”

“I’ve been trying for over a year to apply the same principles used on the cellular nanobots to one that can splice in DNA and RNA,” Shuri confidently states from across the table. “But I’m not having much luck.” She leans over and casually grabs a croissant off the plate in the center of the table, the relaxed smirk rising to her features once again. “I understand you hired Emil Ramos?”

Tessa narrows her eyes at the girl as she nods. “Yes, Dr. Ramos is on staff here.”

“I’ve done some digging,” she intones just before popping a bite in her mouth. She chews around the pastry as she says, “I think his Ebola vaccine would be the perfect project.” She swallows hard. “The immunologic adjuvant he’s working with has been shown to increase transcriptional events to have a dramatic effect on immune cells.”

“Yes,” she nods. “I’m aware.”

“Imagine if we could bypass the required vectors and simply splice in the recombinant DNA to ensure that the intended proteins are produced _every time_.” She leans back in her seat with a self-satisfied air. “No more Ebola.”

Tessa pulls in a long, deep breath as she thinks on her words. Yes, it’s true, that would be… amazing. Revolutionary. But… “I thought you were here to discuss our work on the X-gene inhibitor.”

Shuri releases a small laugh. “Why would you think that?”

Again, her nose wrinkles in utter confusion. “Because that’s what _everyone_ wants to discuss.”

T’Challa leans forward and drops his hand atop Tessa’s. “Dr. Sullivan, I’m sure you are more than capable of discovering your… inhibitor. But that is not the type of _medicine_ that we are interested in. Wakanda will share what it can to help the rest of the world. But I do not believe that changing a man against his will, making him into something he’s not, is… well, let us just say, you cannot cure what is not a disease.”

She feels a heated laugh rise and bubble in her throat. It chokes out of her in a thick, raspy chortle. “Are you serious?” she asks, wide, goofy grin pulling across her face.

T’Challa cocks his head curiously, taken aback by her odd reaction. “Yes. Quite.”

She clears her throat to keep the remaining laughter at bay. “But… your father.”

His face softens a bit as he explains, “My father was killed by an evil man. But it is what’s in a man’s heart that makes him evil. If that man had not had powers, he would’ve built a bomb. His genetic makeup didn’t cause him to kill my father, nor all those others. He _chose_ to do that.”

She nods slowly. “Yes,” she mutters plainly. “Yes. That’s right.” She looks up at him, locking onto his eyes. “Thank you, T’Challa.” Her gaze shifts over to Shuri, her smile growing wider as she takes in the girl’s seemingly genuine expression. “Would you like to meet Dr. Ramos?”

000

Tessa had loved science for almost as long as she can remember. Learning, researching, experimenting, proposing new theorems and ideas… these were things that had just taken root in her, blossomed and grown over the years to make her into the doctor she is today.

Sure, she fell deeper in love with science when staring up at the stars following her first astronomy lesson. And upon watching foam shoot out of the beaker after mixing peroxide with potassium iodide in her first ever chemistry class. And the first time she placed a sliver of a leaf between the slides on a microscope to view the inner workings of plant cells. But that’s not how it all started. Her love for science was sparked by something far more simple.

When she arrived at Xavier’s – a scared, lonely 6-year-old girl who clung desperately to her new, still largely unfamiliar brothers – the first place she found peace was in the medical lab. It wasn’t the room itself that soothed her, of course. Though she did smile wide at the _clip-clop_ sound her shoes made on the ivory tile floor, and she seemed fascinated by the reflections bouncing continuously off of the bright stainless steel surfaces. And she had – right away, without any provocation – began asking about all of the machines and odd-looking devices, speaking to someone other than Alex or Scott for the first time in days.

But still, it wasn’t the lab itself that held the power to invoke a sense of peace and comfort in her. It wasn’t the large, sterile, otherwise intimidating room that was welcoming, inviting… familiar. No. It was the people in the lab. It was Jean Grey. And Hank McCoy. Later in life, it was Moira MacTaggert. Then, later still, it was Tony Stark and Bruce Banner.

These were the people who taught her that the unknown was nothing to fear, rather it was an opportunity, an exciting entity just waiting to be discovered. These were the people who explained that the universe was made up of more bits and pieces – more parts and particles – than any human brain could fathom. Who showed her that the human body was just as wide and incomprehensible, just as painfully unknowable at the finite level as the universe itself. Who taught her that experiments gone awry are often times more successful than all the ones gone _right_ put together. And who proved her wrong when she confidently stated – knowing that what makes _life_ is utterly unknowable – that no _machine_ could ever be made to feel and laugh and love like a true person.

These people invoked within her an abiding love for science. They are what made the workplace a haven for her, a safe and comforting and thrilling refuge. Even now, it’s the ghosts of them that somehow seem to permeate the walls of nearly any research lab or medical suite she steps into. It’s their confident, self-assured voices, their incredulous arguments, their shared introspections that she can almost hear bouncing off the stainless countertops, echoed in the whir of the centrifuge.

But lately it felt that those barely discernable echoes were all she had left of any of them. The people themselves had vanished. She now has a larger, more capable staff than she could’ve ever dreamed, and yet it often seems as though she has no one at all.

She hadn’t even realized how much she missed _working_ with someone else – studying and researching and brainstorming with someone who was intellectually her equal… or her superior – until she took over the lab with Shuri. Ramos and his techs had gone home long ago, leaving them to spend the last several hours on their own, alternating between contented silence, intense discussion, and raucous laughter. All the while moving closer and closer to a new lofty goal… a unknown entity Tessa now yearned to discover. A brainchild only just conceived… one that, even this morning she would’ve thought could never be birthed. At least not by her.

People had called Tessa a genius in the past, and she would agree that she’s pretty damn smart – no amount of modesty could blind her to that truth. But if she were to be completely honest, she always just thought of herself as a smart girl who – thanks to hard work and undeniable passion – managed to somehow squeak by in a field that would one day rush past her and spit her out.

But Shuri? That girl is a true genius. Sure, she had been given an advantage. She’d grown up in a place where she was afforded the opportunity to study amidst technologies that Tessa – who, admittedly, got more exposure to advanced tech than the average scientist thanks to the X-Men – could even fathom. But it’s far more than just Shuri’s education and widespread knowledge base that impresses her. The girl is simply _full_ of ideas, each new one better than the last. Her intuition, her _feel_ for the work is nothing less than astounding.

Which is probably why it’s been so easy for Tessa to spend so many hours in the lab with her… time slipping swiftly by as they work in tandem, eerily finishing each other’s thoughts and anticipating the other’s moves. Even now – at two in the morning – Tessa feels more alive and invigorated… and at peace – than she has in years.

“Do you know what makes a great scientist?” she asks suddenly, spinning quickly on a heel to gaze at the girl.

Shuri cocks her head curiously. “Certainly not intellect,” she replies blithely.

Tessa’s face lights up, wide smile stretching across her features. _Einstein_ , she thinks to herself, only minimally surprised that the young woman’s mind moved so quickly to the same beloved quote hers had conjured up: _Most people say that it is intellect which makes a great scientist. They are wrong: it is character._

“How close are you with your mother?” she asks next, an amused smirk rising to her lips.

Shuri’s face scrunches up, her brows knitting together in thought. “Pretty close,” she replies. “Why do you ask?”

Tessa just shrugs before turning back to her station. “I’m thinking about adopting you.”

She barks out a laugh. “I am very nearly an adult,” she proclaims. “And besides…” She steps closer and bops Tessa’s hip playfully with her own. “You could never afford to keep me at the standard to which I’ve grown accustomed.”

She looks to the young woman at her side, gives a small frown. “Will you adopt me, then? Once you are _legally_ an adult?”

“Of course!” she enthuses. “And oh how you’ll love your new home!”

The computer in front of Tessa lets out a short beep, puling her attention by telling her the most recent round of results are ready for her perusal. She flips down her glasses to take a look, absently muttering, “Wakanda, here I come,” as she reads over the screen in front of her.

“You know,” Shuri says, peering over her shoulder. “You would be most welcome there. You’ve shown me your labs… I’d like to show you mine.”

“Damn,” she breathes out, noting the less than desirable results before her. Then, turning to Shuri with a scowl, “With how crazy things have been around here, and in New York, I’m lucky if I get to travel to my own apartment.”

Shuri shrugs. “Maybe it’s just as well. I wouldn’t want you to feel your facility is… inferior,” she intones with an evil grin, mirthful eyes shining as she bites back a teasing laugh.

Tessa just frowns at her. “My lab’s not _inferior_ ,” she protests, her left hand delicately stroking the stainless steel countertop in front of her. “Don’t listen to her,” she says to the counter – to the lab and the research facility as a whole. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Could use some… enhancements,” Shuri says as she leans back into the counter and gazes around the quiet, otherwise empty room. Then, turning quickly and leveling Tessa with a sudden, almost mischievous stare, she utters, “Speaking of _enhancements_ … now that we’re friends…”

“I thought we were soon-to-be mother and daughter,” she interrupts coyly.

“Sure,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “What can you tell me about your X-gene research?”

Tessa frowns deeply – a true frown this time rather than just a playful grimace. “I thought… I thought you and T’Challa weren’t interested in that.”

Shuri’s smile begins to fade as she takes in her expression. “No,” she explains. “We’re not… interested in _that_.” Her deep brown eyes connect with Tessa’s as she tries to suss out what caused the woman’s demeanor to so drastically shift. “I’m interested in the gene in general.”

Tessa nods slowly, saying nothing.

“You know,” she begins, raising her brows appraisingly. “For someone who’s leading the team developing the _Mutant Cure_ , you don’t seem very… enthusiastic about it.”

She lets out a thick huff of a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Cancer needs a cure. Alzheimer’s. Heart Disease.” She tosses a quick glance at the woman by her side – “Ebola.” – and then shakes her head sadly. “Mutantism is not a disease. It doesn’t need a cure.”

“We are in agreement there,” she says lightly, bumping her shoulder playfully into Tessa’s in the hopes of eliciting a smile. “But it is a fascinating _condition_ … one that I would love to know more about.”

Tessa spins suddenly toward her, her eyebrows pinched together. “Can I ask you something?”

Shuri nods. “Of course.”

A mix of confusion and hesitation line her features as she works to filter through all of the questions rising in her mind. But one seems to outweigh the others. “You said that one of the people who worked on the M-gene tried to sell the samples to you?”

She releases a small huff. “Well, not _me_. I was a child. But to the head of our research department, yes.”

“Did you buy them?”

She shakes her head. “He claimed they were stolen – our department head, not the man trying to sell them. We’ve only been able to keep Wakanda safe and hidden by staying out of other people’s conflicts. Buying highly regulated, black market medical samples would likely be inviting conflict.”

Tessa nods, her gaze drifting off towards nothing as the thoughts and questions continue to ping back and forth inside her head.

“But it was true?” Shuri asks. “You were able to manually activate the genes to elicit the intended response.”

She looks back to her with wide eyes. “The intended response? No.” She shrugs, an almost defeated quality to her suddenly drooping shoulders. “At least not _my_ intended response. The plan was to splice the gene into existing DNA, activate it with a very specific type of radiation, and use it to induce cellular regeneration in cells corrupted by Cancer.”

Shuri frowns at her. “And it didn’t work?”

She shakes her head solemnly. “We were close. So close. But before we could get there _someone_ stole the samples and took off with them.” A fire sparks deep in her belly, an old rage burning anew as she thinks back to what happened in Minsk. “We were able to elicit certain effects by activating the gene… depending on where it was spliced. Some of those effects led to the production of Mutant Growth Hormone.”

“Which means that, if spliced into a subject’s DNA, that subject would gain enhanced abilities,” Shuri easily extrapolates, small smile perking the corners of her mouth as she thinks about the implications of that discovery.

Tessa nods and continues to stare blankly ahead. “Temporarily, at least. Guess that effect was more desirable, more profitable, than a cure for disease.”

“Maybe we should’ve bought the genes. We could’ve brought you in, let you continue your research, cured Cancer!”

A crooked smile rises to Tessa’s lips. “Would’ve been an interesting path,” she muses briefly. Then, turning sharply to the girl. “Do you know who did end up buying them? The M-genes?”

Shuri shakes her head simply before returning to the samples laid out in front of her. “No idea.”


	18. Fear is the Mind Killer

This is now – officially – the longest mission Bucky’s ever been on. Well, with the Avengers at least. He has vague memories of being gone weeks, even months at a time while hunting, stalking prey for Hydra. But since releasing the Winter Soldier from his consciousness – that’s how his somewhat wacky therapist liked to put it – he’d barely been away from home for more than a few days at a time.

Sure, Steve and Natasha are often gone for several weeks on a single mission – doing recon, chasing down leads, prepping for ops – whatever the hell all of that means. But, up until recently, Bucky was rarely asked to go along on those outings. He was, after all, a soldier, not a spy. A skilled marksman, trained sharpshooter, battle-tested warrior. And Steve usually waited until they needed those skills before pulling him in. Especially considering his… aptitude for throwing PTSD-related episodes. As far as the Captain was concerned, the less time Bucky spent out in the field, the better.

But things are different now. For one, after _years_ of often frustrating, always annoying, seemingly patronizing therapy, Bucky is – finally – pretty damn stable. Which is one of the reasons Steve had asked him to help train the new support team in the first place. And as it turned out, he did a pretty damn good job doing it… so good, in fact, that Steve thought he should take a more active role in _leading_ the team too. “I don’t get it,” he had told Bucky with a shrug and a smug grin just before the newbies made it to fulltime, “but for some reason, they all respect you and listen to you.”

Which is how he ended up here, stuck running a seemingly pointless op in a stunningly beautiful wasteland with two of his most promising – and irritating – proteges. And Romanov. Frankly, he would’ve preferred to maintain his status as the mentally _delicate_ former assassin who was brought in only when sniper cover was required.

The past ten days have been some of the most awful of his life. Well, not Hydra-tortured-and-brainwashed-me awful, but terrible none the less. For one thing, it’s boring as hell. The majority of their _recon_ has been going on long, hot hikes looking for a trail of breadcrumbs that they’re all beginning to think San Paulo was too smart to leave behind.

When they’re not out searching for leads themselves, the small group takes turns flying the Redwing. And Bucky has to admit, the stealthy little data-collecting robot bird is actually pretty cool. He’s taken to _piloting_ it on night missions – in part because it’s a bearable temperature outside, and in part because he gets a kick out of the thermal night vision.

But _looking_ – and not finding – is pretty much all that they’ve done. For ten days. Which means that most of his time isn’t spent working – because how could you even claim to be in the field if there’s no actual _action_ going on? Rather it’s spent just sort of _hanging out_. With Romanov, who, apparently, is an amateur practical joker with a mean streak the size of Siberia. And Atkinson, who practices yoga in the mornings in nothing but a bra and what Natasha refers to as booty shorts. And Robson, who just… well…

“Robson snores,” he mutters angrily into the sat phone.

Their tiny, ramshackle cabin is in an undisclosed location, far outside the city, so only sketchy satellite phone calls are allowed in and out. So far, it’s only been Natasha using the phone, checking in back home every other day with coded mission updates. But after being out in the sun all day yesterday while Atkinson enthused about the beauty of nature… and watching the trio play dirty charades for three hours by campfire light last night… and then being roused multiple times by Robson’s unearthly snorts and starts, Bucky just can’t take it any more.

“I hate every single one of them,” he says with a bitter sigh as he paces in frustrated circles through the secluded spot he managed to find about a mile from the cabin.

Tessa lets loose with a light, sincere laugh. And he feels something in his chest release, allowing his ribs to expand. _That’s it. That’s what I needed to hear_ , he thinks to himself as he pulls in what feels like the first deep and clear breath he’s been able to take in days. “You picked them,” she singsongs teasingly, bringing a crooked smile to his face.

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t planned on being stranded with them in a run-down cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re in paradise!” she exclaims, her ridiculous enthusiasm causing his grin to pull wider.

“It’s hot,” he retorts simply, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. For the sat phone to work, he has to be out in a clearing, of course. And the late morning sun is beating mercilessly down on him.

He can almost see her narrowing her eyes reproachfully as she repeats, word drawn out syllable by syllable, “Par-a-dise.”

He feels something land on the back of his neck and reaches up to smack at it, popping himself so hard he almost loses the phone. His face shifts into a pained, annoyed grimace. “And there are bugs. Everywhere.”

“Have you done anything fun?” she asks lightly, an obvious attempt to bolster his mood.

“There is no fun here.”

She barks out a laugh. “ _You_ are no fun!”

“What part of _trapped in a cramped cabin with Romanov and two overeager_ – ” He stops short as he slams his toe into a giant, sharp rock, releasing a quick, clipped, “Son of a…”

“What did you do?” Tessa asks, absolute amusement shining through her voice. “What are you _doing_?”

“I’m pacing,” he bites out. “And Romanov made me pack away my steel toes and wear these _fucking_ sandals…”

“You’re wearing sandals?” she nearly squeals.

His eyes close tightly against the sun, leaving brightly colored auras bouncing off the backs of his lids. He lets out a long, deep sigh before stating simply, “I hate it here.”

“Aw,” she taunts. “My poor baby, trapped in a tropical paradise, made to play tourist for two weeks surrounded by breathtaking vistas – ”

“Nature is awful,” he interjects.

She goes on as though he hadn’t said a word, “Forced into _sandals_.”

“I’m supposed to be _working_ ,” he gripes. “This isn’t a vacation.”

“Yeah well,” she starts with a bit of a huff, “You wanna know about _my_ work week?”

“Yes,” he snipes, truly wanting nothing more than to just listen to his girl talk for a bit.

“Well… First off… my new best friend left me and I have no idea when she’s coming back.”

“Who’s your new best friend?” he asks, voice piqued with curiosity.

“The _royal_ Shuri,” she states with a playful air. “As it turns out, the Princess of Wakanda is a freaking genius. And she wants to share her genius with me!” A long, ponderous sigh fills his ear before she goes on to say, “We played for two days straight. But then she had to go back home,” with an audibly thick pout.

“So the meeting with the Wakandans went well?”

“Babe… you have no idea.”

He smiles wide at her declaration. “Good,” he utters simply. “You deserve a win.”

“Oh,” she intones then, a slight bitterness burning the edges of her voice. “But let me tell about the last couple of days.” She clears her throat as though preparing to give a long-winded speech, which sets a small chuckle rising in his throat. “Yesterday, there was an accident in one of the labs… no one was hurt, but guess who has to take care of all the paperwork? And _my God_ , is there a lot of paperwork. And then a board member – who’s so old I want to hold a mirror under her nose in meetings just to make sure she’s still alive – actually _chased me down the hall_ to yell directly in my face. I’m pretty sure she spit Metamucil in my eye. And _then_ …” Bucky’s lips quirk up again at hearing the rise in pitch of her voice. “This morning Claire tells me she’s pregnant. Pregnant!”

He winces a bit at the sheer decibel of the words filtering through the sat phone, tugging it away from his ear momentarily. “Isn’t that a good thing?” he asks simply.

“Yeah, sure,” she emits with a cynical lilt. “It’s a damn miracle.”

He tries to bite back a laugh, but doesn’t quite succeed, his words rising up in tandem with an amused hum. “You should probably at least pretend that you’re happy for her.”

“I did pretend,” she snipes. “And I might even _be_ happy for her if she were telling me that in _several months_ she needed to take a couple of weeks off to give birth. But that’s not what happened.”

“Just a couple of weeks?” he questions, teasing smirk pulling at his features. He’s stopped the frantic pacing, now standing idly in a small amount of shade, listening aptly to the story he’s sure she would’ve told him immediately… if only he’d been there to hear it.

“I don’t know how long women take for maternity leave,” she tells him blithely. “What am I, an HR rep?” She pulls in a slow, deep breath to calm her nerves a bit, and he waits patiently on the line for her to do so. “She has hyperemesis,” she states finally, voice low and sad. “Which explains a lot, actually. But she has to take a leave of absence, effective immediately.”

His brow furrows, funneling sweat into his eyes. “What does that mean?” he asks as he almost angrily swipes at his forehead.

“Extreme morning sickness,” she says with a sigh. “Basically.” Then, her tone taking on a sharp edge, “The things women are forced to go through for children. I hope you’re happy with just having cats for the rest of our lives.”

He lets out a small chuckle and shakes his head absently. “How is Ed?” he asks, his voice softening.

She drops another long, sorrowful sigh. “He’s ignoring me.” She moves the phone away from her face, her voice becoming distant and hazy. “Eddie?” she calls out. “Daddy wants to talk to you!” A thick, buoyant laugh rumbles up from his chest. “Eddie!” she shouts out again. Then, back to him, “Yeah, see? Now he’s ignoring you too.”

“He’s probably just mad I’m still gone,” he breathes out, wide smile stretched over his face. “I told him I’d only be a few days.”

“So you lied,” she accuses. “Well, he’s been eyeballing me for a while now,” she tells him in a suspicious tone. “Maybe he thinks I’m the reason you’re gone.”

“Never,” he states with a definitive laugh.

Her words are a bit garbled again as she pulls the phone from her face to address the cat. “Do you think I killed daddy and disposed of his body somewhere?”

“Jesus, baby. You’re gonna give him nightmares.” He cringes to himself the moment he realizes he just spoke as if their _cat_ would somehow understand her words. “You’re gonna give _me_ nightmares,” he corrects.

“You should see the looks he’s been giving me,” she utters profoundly. “I’m closing him out of the bedroom tonight. I don’t trust that he’s not going to try to steal my breath while I sleep.”

He laughs again, deep and breathy, shaking his head absently as he stands alone in a sweltering far-off land. “Thank you,” he says after a moment, small smile still playing on his lips.

She doesn’t ask _what for_. She knew the moment he called what it was that he needed. This line isn’t 100% secure, so he wouldn’t call with any sort of mission update, not that he’d be calling to give her one regardless. What he needed was a distraction. A bit of normalcy. Some love and laughter… and a hint of home.

“Tell Robson to take some Sudafed,” she says. “I’m not gonna let him keep sleeping with my man if he insists on keeping him up all night.”

Bucky winces, his face pinching uncomfortably. “I really hope no one’s hacked this call.” Tessa simply laughs on the other end, a self-satisfied chortle. “You know,” he intones, “if I’m not bunking with him, I’ll have to go with Atkinson.”

She snorts loudly. “Put the two of them together. Maybe the giant can work out some of her pent-up sexual tension.”

“The last thing I need is for half of my team to be fucking each other.”

“Well the last thing _I_ need is for a tiny blonde bombshell to be _bunking_ with my fiancé.”

“Blonde bombshell?” he laughs out.

“What? She’s hot. I’d do her,” she mutters dully.

Bucky lets out a long breath, a smile so wide on his face that it almost hurts. “If Robson wakes me up from _that_ dream tonight, he’s a fucking dead man.”

She huffs into the phone. “I’ve already been abandoned by my new best friend and by the most important woman in my life this week. Please don't make me worry about losing my favorite man too.”

“Is that me?” he asks coyly, voice rising teasingly at the end. “Are you saying I’m your favorite man?” Before she can answer he jerks back his arm to slap at another sucking insect, the phone tumbling from his grip and clattering to the earth by his feet. “ _Fuck_ ,” he barks loudly, the irritated curse filtering through to her in a muffled sentiment.

When he brings the phone back up to his ear all he can hear is the sound of her light, airy laugh.

“Paradise, my ass,” he mutters.

She stops laughing just long enough to ask, “You’re gonna make me spend my honeymoon at Coney Island, aren’t you?”

He lets out a short, irritated snort. “You could do worse.”

000

He ends the call by telling her that they’ll likely be a few more days, maybe even another week or so. But she can hear the sadness in his voice, the homesickness when he says the words, so she refuses to declare her own disappointment. Instead, she waits until the call is over and she hunts down Eddie, sweeping him into her arms and forcing him to cuddle. That lasts for all of about a minute and a half, leaving her once again alone with her thoughts in a quiet, empty apartment.

Being alone has, admittedly, been a bit of a struggle these past several days. She thought that it’d be a relief to have some time to herself, time to do as she pleases, eat what she pleases, sleep sprawled out across the bed if she pleases. And it was nice. For the first few nights. But after that, the quiet that surrounded her began to close in, creating a tight sort of enclosure about her where all of her most invasive, inquiring thoughts were made to echo endlessly throughout the night.

She had to come up with something to keep her mind off of… well, the things bouncing around in her mind. Her solution? Watching horror movies alone in the dark.

It sounds crazy, sure. So crazy that when Wanda politely inquired the other day about how she’d been doing all alone in her apartment, she panicked and declared that she’d be falling asleep by eight every night. But the concerned look her friend gave her was far preferred to anyone knowing how she’d really been spending her time.

Tessa had made a habit out of mocking horror movies overs the years… ridiculing the loose storylines and ridiculous special effects, challenging the veracity and believability of nearly every premise. She liked to call them _scare porn_ , and would quickly tell anyone who was willing to listen that they were the garbage red-headed stepchildren of the movie industry.

But recently, the strangest thing happened. So exhausted after a long day of work that she couldn’t be bothered to change the channel on the TV, she ended up inadvertently watching Paranormal Activity. And perhaps it was her exhaustion that allowed her to get sucked in, actually _watching_ the movie instead of spouting off lame jokes that only the cat could hear. She laid on the couch, clutching a blanket tightly around her shoulders, jumping and shrieking at any and every _scare_ , letting the manufactured fear seep into her bones, like honey dissolving in tea.

The movie, admittedly, scared the shit out of her.

But it also – somehow – quieted all of those worries, all of the painful, cyclical thoughts that had been rumbling through her subconscious for the better part of a year. It was as though, once the Hollywood-made fear washed over her, her other, very _real_ fears were able to dissolve in its wake.

Fear. For someone who had spent her entire life adamantly denying that she was ever afraid – whether of being alone following her grandfather’s demise; or of being rejected when yet another foster family returned her to the children’s home; or of being burned when John dared her to walk through fire; or even of herself once she began to realize what she was truly capable of – she sure as hell was feeling copious amounts of fear creep further into her gut daily.

What new laws and regulations would be proposed today to keep mutants at bay? When would she be discovered, outed, made to register like some sort of sex offender? How long would it be before – despite all her attempts – her staff found their _cure_? How long before Tony found out what she’d been hiding? How long before her people were rooted from this Earth, pulled like weeds and tossed aside to make room for all of the pretty, empty, _normal_ humans? Would she be forced to take a stand, to use her powers in a fight for her people? Would she – _could_ she – come back from that?

Watching horror movies now… well it felt a bit like fighting fire with fire.

But she’s still not going to tell anyone about her ridiculous new ritual. Afterall, ghosts and demons, monsters and ghouls… those things aren’t real. And only a fool would allow herself to be sucked into believing they were. Even if just for a couple of hours.

And yet…

She lets out a deep groan and rolls her eyes at her own foolishness before grabbing the box of Pop-Tarts off the counter, turning out the lights, and settling into the couch with the remote in hand.

She falls asleep somewhere around the middle of Rosemary’s Baby, images of a devilish orgy traipsing through already anxious dreams. It’s nearly midnight when she’s pulled from those dreams – now filled, for some strange reason, with unpleasant imaginings of Bucky wounded on a battlefield, being tended to by a scantily clad _nurse_ Atkinson – by a soft and sensual whisper.

“Hey there.” She feels her hair flutter gently as though slow-moving fingers are combing through the curls. She turns her face to move deeper into the touch and releases a small, contented moan. “That’s what I like to hear,” cuts through the silent room, the deep, familiar tenor causing her sleepy brow to wrinkle in confusion. “That’s it, sugar.”

Her eyes pop open wildly and she starts, recoiling in a flurry from the blurred form in front of her. She blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the taint of sleep from her eyes and somehow cut through the darkness. He isn’t there. Obviously. She’s just dreaming. No one is there. Certainly not… “Cal?”

The dark blur in front of her slowly congeals into a large and looming shape. “Hey there, sugar,” he says with a smile.

There’s a clipped moment of eerie silence… the air around them growing still and thick and bitter. She blinks again – once, twice – and then she screams. It’s an ungodly, earsplitting scream the likes of which she never would have thought even _could_ come out of her. But if ever there was a time to emit a bloodcurdling yell, this was it.

Cal winces at the sound, obviously taken aback by the noise. His hands fly up in a stilling, calming gesture, but that just causes her to shriek even louder and scurry to the opposite end of the couch. Because even in the dark – the only light in the room being thrown by the TV’s screensaver and the large full moon pouring in through the curtains – she can see that his hands are covered in blood.

“Wait. Just wait,” he tries, his voice sounding almost desperate as he follows her to the other side of the sofa.

His eyes go wide when he hears a soft voice – barely cutting through her screech – sound from somewhere in the walls. “Doctor Sullivan, is everything alright?” He flips his gaze around wildly, desperately seeking the owner of the voice. “Shall I get Captain Rogers?”

Tessa doesn’t respond to the voice in the walls. Nor does she calm at Cal’s efforts. Instead, in an attempt to get even further away from him, she climbs quickly up the back of the couch, her hands grasping desperately for purchase and losing, slipping, causing her to tumble haphazardly to the hardwood floor.

The screaming stops, but he can still hear her short, uneven breaths. “You okay?” he asks hesitantly as he moves around to the back of the couch. He extends a hand to help her up, only then realizing – once he sees the look of terror in her eyes – just what it is that has her so upset. He sees his fingers stained red with blood. “What…?” he chokes out, jerking his hand away, pulling it to his chest where he begins to examine it closely.

“Cal?” she squeaks out, barely audible. He looks down at her and sees that her face is still draped in fear, but her gaze, while beyond cautious, appears clear as her eyes rove over his face. “Cal…”

Just then, the door to the apartment flies open, the easily recognizable – even in sweatpants and a T-shirt – _Captain America_ bolting in. “Tessa?” he calls out anxiously, stepping back to flip on the lights. “Tess?” he asks again, his eyes travelling the room, searching for her. “Where are you?”

Cal freezes instantly. He feels himself steel and steady for a fight… though he’s not sure why. Actually, he’s not sure of much at all right now. Why is he here? Where is here? Why is Captain America here, wherever here is? Confusion pulls at his face, morphing it into an almost cartoonish distortion of bewilderment. Tessa watches in awe as the mystified look grows even deeper, his eyes widening as the Captain turns the corner to stand right beside him, the man’s concerned blue eyes looking directly through him.

“Tessa,” Steve mutters as he drops down to the floor beside her. “What…” he starts, taking in her state. She’s sitting upright, but her legs are splayed beneath her in an odd fashion and she’s cradling her wrist to her chest. There’s a blanket half puddled onto the floor beside her, the other half still draped over the back of the couch. “Did you fall?” he asks, brow wrinkling in confusion. She doesn’t answer, and he feels a sharp tug at his gut when he looks over at her face. She’s staring up at… nothing. Her wide eyes, peeled back in horror remain trained on… “What?” he asks, gaze bouncing around desperately in an attempt to find whatever it is that she sees.

But there’s nothing. There’s nothing there.

“Tess,” he bites out, gently grasping her jaw and pulling her face towards his. “What is it?” he asks, voice deep with concern. “What happened?”

Slowly, hesitantly, her eyes move to meet his. “He’s… he…” she sputters quietly.

“He?” Steve asks, voice rising an octave. “Someone was here?” He sits back on his heels, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Friday?” he calls out. “Did you see anyone?”

“No, Captain Rogers. Dr. Sullivan was the only human in the apartment. I’m not sure where Eddie the cat went.”

He gives a quick roll of the eyes at the useless cat info and turns back to Tessa, his brows knitting together. Once again, she has her gaze trained on nothing. He reaches up and delicately palms the back of her head with his hand. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. “Did you hit your head?”

“What?” she shoots out suddenly, her head whipping around to face him. There’s a sharp crack in her neck, the motion is so sudden, so severe. “You don’t…” she starts, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “You don’t _see_ him?”

Steve’s lips part to answer, to say _no_. To tell her that there’s no one here. To explain that she probably just had a nightmare. But there’s something positively wild in her eyes. And he can see that she’s very much awake and alert. And she’s pointing… deliberately, her shaking hand outstretched. Pointing ahead, in front of her, just above them both.

“Steve,” she implores, her voice dropping dangerously. “Tell me you see him.”

He looks again to where she’s pointing, and again – still – he sees nothing. Nothing other than her outstretched hand, trembling maniacally. He reaches out and grabs it, feels an errant shock – like a spark of static electricity – fire through his fingers as he pulls her hand down into her lap. “I don’t see anything,” he tells her softly. “I don’t…”

She tugs her hand away and drops her head into her palms, pinching her eyes shut as she begins to mumble, “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“Tessa,” Steve tries, utterly unsure of what to say. “Tess… are you _sure_ that you see someone?” She slowly raises her gaze, peers at him from between parted fingers. “Maybe it was just a dream?” he offers.

She drops her hands and turns, achingly slowly, a bitter reluctance imploring her not to look back. But she does. She glances over to where she’s certain Cal was standing just a moment ago. She looks up and hopes to see that his hulking silhouette has faded, evaporated, diminished like the eerie remnant of her subconscious he was sure to be.

But he remains. Still. The same man she remembers so well. The man she spent years of her life with, spent years of her life _following_. Years fighting and making up with, hating and loving and hating again. And ultimately, years avoiding and trying to forget.

“Sugar?” he emits in a voice so small and desperate and scared that it causes her chest to constrict.

She _hears_ him. And she _sees_ him. “Not a dream,” she mumbles, an awful sort of realization flooding her. This isn’t like the dreams and nightmares of the past year. This isn’t like the unnerving voices that echoed in her head, nor the ones that reverberated around her, just outside her, in a sort of swirl of sound. This isn’t in her head. This is real. She can hear him and see him and… she can _feel_ him.

“Tessa,” Steve says, his voice deep and timid. He moves closer to her, sitting now on the hardwood so that they’re hip to hip. “Tessa, you’re scaring me.”

If she hears her friend’s strangled sentiment, she doesn’t show it. Instead, her eyes remain fixed on the man in front of her, this terrified man who, she now sees, now notices, is _drenched_ in blood. A sudden sharp intake of breath stabs through her as she gapes at him.

“Cal?” she almost whispers, her tone no longer frightened, but sad. “Oh, Cal,” she mutters as her eyes traverse his torso, noting what look to be gaping bullet holes in his chest, his abdomen.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks as his eyes follow hers. He hesitantly presses a bloodstained fingertip to one of the holes, looking to Tessa in horror when he feels nothing.

She rises slowly, leaving a frightened and utterly confused Steve in a heap on the floor. And she takes a single step closer. Reaching out, she stops her hand just before it’s able to press against his chest, not wanting to know if she can actually touch him or not. “Cal,” she says, looking into his eyes and pulling in a deep, reticent breath. “What happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was weird, huh? Quick disclaimer... the title of this chapter is all thanks to Frank Herbert. Let me know what you think!


	19. Heading South

Bucky arrives back at the cabin to find Natasha and Robson slowly circling each other in the small patch of packed earth just outside their front door.

He watches with curiosity at first, wondering why they’d be doing drills now when they were all set to hike into town this morning. But his curiosity quickly turns to irritation when he sees Romanov’s lips turn up into a vicious sneer just as she bursts forward and punches him square in the nose. A sharp crack resounds through the clearing as Robson crumbles to his knees for the briefest of moments before leaping upright and launching himself at the redhead.

Bucky sidesteps Natasha as she easily moves to avoid the attack, and he heads over to the cabin, sidling up alongside Atkinson. “What the hell is this?” he asks her, exasperation adding a sharp bite to his words.

She doesn’t move, just continues to lean up against the wall with her arms crossed tensely over her chest, her eyes trained on the sparring pair in front of her. “Lesson number four,” she mutters. “Never make eye contact with Agent Romanov.”

Well, as it turns out, this little spat was caused by a bit more than just unwanted eye contact. Apparently, when Bucky stole away with the sat phone to call Tessa, Robson – figuring that the phone was gone because Natasha had gone off to report back to HQ – decided it was a good time to vent all of his pent-up frustrations about his superior.

The gist of his rant – as Atkinson explains to Bucky while they continue to watch the fight unfold – was that he was tired of the redhead thinking she’s _hot shit_ just because she was trained by some kind of elite assassin group. He was trained by the US Army, some of the best of the best. And by Sergeant Barnes, who had kicked her sorry ass a time or two – Bucky, admittedly, smirks at that comment – and she’s just a has-been who got pulled into the Avengers because Fury… well, let’s be honest, most men would do anything for a blow job from the likes of her.

“He said that?” Bucky asks, eyes wide and mouth agape. Natasha Romanov was far from his favorite person – in fact, there was still a good chance that he’d smother in her sleep before this mission was done. But she had integrity – which is saying something for a former Russian spy. And furthermore, if she thinks she’s _hot shit_ , it’s probably because she is.

Atkinson just nods, a crooked, rueful smile on her face. “It was the last thing he said before she came up behind him and dropped him with a Widow’s Bite.”

He looks back over at the pair in front of them, sees that Robson’s face is weirdly twitching as though tiny electrical impulses are still buzzing through his nervous system. “Romanov always gets the drop,” he mutters plainly, shaking his head. Bucky had been in the Army – granted it was decades ago – and he had, as the Winter Soldier, visited the Red Room once or twice. So he _knew_ that the type of training doled out by the two organizations was not comparable in the least. “Robson’s a fucking idiot.”

“Agreed,” she says, wide eyes tracking the Widow’s movements, studying her closely as she easily fakes left and sweeps the twitching giant’s legs – both legs – out from under him. “He apologized. And I _tried_ to explain that he was just letting off some steam. And that… yeah… he’s an idiot.” She turns her gaze on Bucky, squinting through the sun at his back. “You think she’s gonna kill him?”

He shrugs. “How long have they been going at it?”

She glances at her watch. “About twenty minutes. He regained consciousness and she told him to show her what the _best of the best_ taught him.”

He looks back at the standoff unfolding before him. Romanov steps back to let Robson awkwardly pull himself to his feet, and from there the two just stare tensely at one another. “Yeah,” he says with a long sigh. “She might kill him.” Atkinson releases a small chortle as he pushes himself off the cabin wall and moves over to finally intervene. He pats Robson on the shoulder before tightening his fingers around his upper arm. “You’re making the Army look bad, kid. Stand down.”

Natasha smirks and lets out a short snort. “Better listen to you _Sergeant_ ,” she says with a disgusted intonation.

Bucky glares at her. “You’ve made your point.”

She returns the glare, the calm yet dangerous fire in her eyes that he’s seen more than just a time or two issuing an obvious threat. “You’re not in charge in here.”

He forces Robson aside, yanking back on his shoulder and shoving him towards the cabin. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Atkinson move slowly over, her shoulders tense as though preparing for a fight. “Oh no?” he challenges the woman in front of him, striding closer so that they’re mere inches apart.

“I have seniority,” she says, voice deep and low.

“Didn’t know the Avengers had a policy of _I got here first_.”

She shuffles forward so that they’re literally toe to toe. “This is _my_ op.”

He tosses a pointed thumb over his shoulder. “They’re _my_ team,” he says, feeling an odd swell of pride in his gut. “And if you really are the senior officer here, maybe you should act like it.”

She lets out a short breath, her eyes ticking to the right to track the edgy figures looming nervously behind him. “Fuck you.” The words slip out with barely a hint of vehemence, a look understanding rolling over her features as they continue their standoff. The corner of her mouth quirks up just the slightest bit as she snipes, “Your _team_ is half asshole.”

“The human race is half asshole,” he retorts, his shoulders relaxing. He leans back on his heels and looks up at the sky, squinting against the burning sun. “If we’re going into town, I’d rather do it now. It’s only going to get hotter.”

She says nothing, seemingly satisfied with this end to their talk – and to her and Robson’s scuffle. He is right, after all. She glances at the tall man, now leaning heavily against the cabin, folded in on himself. She can see him tremble slightly, his chin still jerking a bit from the Bite. He’s holding tight to his nose, pressing firmly to either side to try and staunch the flow of blood from the single quick right straight she leveled him with earlier. _Yeah_ , she thinks to herself. _I made my point._

Natasha saunters off, entering the cabin to change. Bucky lets her pass before turning to the two support team members. “We’re heading out,” he says plainly. “Five minutes.” Then he steps over to Robson on his way into the cabin and leans in close. “If I ever hear about you talking shit about a superior again – I don’t care if it is just blowing off steam – you’re gone. Understand?”

The man gives a tight nod, sweat and blood both leaping from the bridge of his nose. “Yes sir.”

It’s more like twenty minutes before they’re finally able to set out – Robson waiting for his nose to stop bleeding before changing shirts. The group walks in strained silence as they head into town for a quick supply run. Truth be told, they have all that they need, but with no leads and time ticking by, they’re going to take another swing at getting something – _anything_ – out of the residents. Which means stepping back into their camping couple covers and spending some money at the local shops in the hopes of garnering enough goodwill to get some info in return.

Romanov _is_ one to hold a grudge, Bucky knows this. But she’s also a professional. So it’s no surprise to him that the minute they enter the town she’s able to – seemingly – brush off their little incident and fall headfirst into the role of adventurous foreigner out to see the world with her boyfriend. She hangs off of Robson’s arm as they move about the general store, prattling on while she fills the basket he’s holding with both supplies and touristy trinkets.

Robson, on the other hand, is stiff in her grip. He looks nervous, cagey as hell.

“Go tell him to calm the fuck down,” Bucky murmurs to Atkinson. She seems hesitant to leave his side, eager instead to carry on their ruse by pressing her hip suggestively against his every time they stop to look at something. He glances down at her and scowls. “Now.”

“Yes sir,” she mumbles with a pout, peeling herself off of him and heading over to the couple in the next aisle. He watches her go, notes the way her hips sway as she moves, as she looks back and throws a flirtatious wink his way. He shakes his head, suddenly irritated – and unsettled – by her commitment to their cover.

“She is yours?” he hears from his left in a heavily accented voice. He turns to find an older woman standing next to him, a wide, playful smile on her face.

He inadvertently blushes. “Yeah,” he replies, ducking his head. “Yes, she is.”

The woman points to his team, all three working to look casual as they discuss the items in their shopping basket. “They are your friends?”

He nods. “We’re camping up north.” He considers breaking into Portuguese to ease their communication, but ultimately waits, afraid that the woman might find it suspicious and stop talking to him altogether.

“They have a fight?” she asks with a small laugh. Bucky looks back over at the trio and realizes that the woman must’ve noticed not only Robson’s broken nose, but his stiff demeanor while in Natasha’s hold and put two and two together. “Lovers must be careful out there,” she intones.

He turns bodily to face her. “Why do you say that?”

“You stay together,” she tells him, waggling a finger. “Not everyone comes back.”

He narrows his eyes and cocks his head at her curiously. “Lovers go missing out there?”

She nods, teasing smile lingering on her face. “A group used to come here often. Foreigners. Young people, like you. Four come in. Three go out.”

“What happened to the fourth?” he asks, brows knitting tightly together. The woman simply shrugs. “It was two couples?” he asks, eager to get any bit of info he can from her.

“Yes, yes,” she replies. “They come five, six…many times through here. Then one’s gone. A man.” She snickers a bit, glancing back at Robson and Romanov. “They fight in the street. Hit and kick. And go to camp. Then, he’s gone.”

“Did the other three come back? After that?” His brain begins to whir, swiftly compiling the facts she’s supplying in with what they know about San Paulo. He came to the area several times over the last year with five other people. “Was it always just the four of them?” he asks, hoping she replies with…

“No. No. They start as six. Said they study…” she shakes her hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. “Something. But men and women… two pairs… lovers.” She finishes the sentence with an oddly alluring lilt to her voice, and an overtly flirtatious caress down his arm.

“So they started with six…”

“Then four,” she finishes with a shrug. “Then lovers quarrel… then three.”

“Then…” he prompts, softening his voice and giving her a crooked smile.

“Next month, two… one couple.”

He frowns at the woman, tries for an almost playful demeanor. “Did they camp up north too? Those cabins are pretty broken down. Didn’t seem like anybody had been there in a long time.”

She leans into him, a bit like Atkinson had done when they first entered the store, and he has to bite back a chuckle at her brazenness. “Months ago,” she says, fluttering her lashes as she looks up at him. “They come. They go. They never come back.” She frowns at him a bit as though lost in thought. “But they go south.” She shakes her head and finally steps back, catching Atkinson approaching from the corner of her eye. “They always go south.”

“I think we’re about finished,” the young blonde says as she steps back over. She glances at the older woman by Bucky’s side and flashes her a warm smile. “Hello.”

“Nao Ingles,” she tells her, a bite to her voice. She turns to leave, patting Bucky on the shoulder and winking at him as she goes.

“What was that all about?” Atkinson asks, an obvious teasing quality to her tone.

He shrugs before glancing down at her, feeling her hip once again press into his. “We need to go south.”

000

It’s rare that Bruce gets a call to hightail it down to medical in the middle of the night, or at all really. He might be the one _technically_ in charge of the day to day at the compound right now, but the truth is, he pretty much leaves the staff to run things as they see fit. But neither Mattingly nor Jessup actually live at the compound, so – _apparently_ – if something happens at midnight on a Thursday, he’s the one Friday rouses.

“Okay,” he breathes out as he rocks back onto his heels. He pinches the bridge of his nose tightly and works to blink away any and all remnants of sleep. “I’m _very_ confused.”

Steve stands uncomfortably in the corner of the exam room, his arms folded tightly over his broad chest. “I don’t know,” he issues out quickly. His face contorts into an even deeper scowl as he says, “I think she hit her head.”

Tessa sighs from her perch atop the exam table. “I didn’t hit my head. I’m telling you, I’m _fine_ ,” she spits out, swatting at Bruce’s hand when he steps forward and tries to shine a penlight in her eyes. She squints at the bright light and turns her face away.

“She fell off the couch?” Bruce shoots across the room to Steve. Then, looking back at her with a crooked grin, “Where you jumping on the furniture?” She glares at him, obviously unamused. “Well,” he sighs out. “You could have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion.” She grabs the light from his hand and chucks it across the room.

“You seem pretty _overly_ sensitive to light,” he mutters, annoyance blooming as he retreats to the corner to find his light.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sensitive to light. Or noise. I’m not dizzy… no double vision. I’m telling you, I feel fine.” She twists her right hand around, the pained wrist still held tightly in her grip. “Other than this.”

Bruce steps back over and narrows his eyes, inspecting her closely before pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and stating, “Okay. No concussion.” He tenderly pulls her lame hand into his and she cringes as he turns it slowly. “Make a fist.” She does, cringing again as he continues to manipulate it. “Could be broken,” he mutters. “We’ll get an X-ray.”

“I don’t need an X-ray,” she tells him with an almost comedic pout. “It’s not broken. I refuse to _break_ again.”

Steve steps forward, dropping his arms to his side. “If she doesn’t have a concussion, then why is she saying she’s… that she can… that…”

Both Bruce and Tessa look at the flustered man and watch him with equally curious – and somewhat amused – wide eyes. “Right,” Bruce drawls out with a slow nod once he realizes that all words have left Steve’s brain. “Well…” He turns to face Tessa. “Visual hallucinations are certainly a cause for concern. We can get a CT too.”

She shakes her head. “No. No, I’m not hallucinating. And I’m telling you, I didn’t hit my head. I fell off the couch _after_ seeing him… _because_ of seeing him.”

“She says it’s Cal,” Steve utters with an impatient lilt.

“It _is_ Cal,” she says slowly, dropping her gaze.

“Okay,” Bruce mutters, brow furrowing. “Who’s Cal?”

Steve keeps his eyes trained on Tessa as he answers. “Her ex. The one who was working with Lobe.”

“Oh,” he says simply. “Okay. So…”

She pulls in a deep, steeling breath and looks up at the men before her. “It’s him. He… appeared in my apartment. He was covered in blood…” She stops and shakes her head, presses her lids firmly together. “I can _feel_ him.”

“You mean his energy?” Bruce asks, interest suddenly piqued. “Is this… Have you ever _done_ this before?”

Her eyes fly open and she levels him with an incredulous stare. “Have I ever _done_ this before?” she repeats with a bite. “Communed with spirits? Talked to the dead?”

Bruce nods just as Cal – who’s been silently looming in the corner since _appearing_ in the exam room not more than a minute after they arrived – looks at her and shouts, “Now hold on a damn minute! I’m not _dead_!”

Tessa lets out a long, pained sigh, her gaze flicking over to the irate man in the corner for just a fraction of a second before settling back on Bruce. “No,” she breathes out, suddenly sounding utterly exhausted. “No, this has never happened before. But… it’s him,” she states plainly, locking eyes with her friend. “He’s here. Or… what’s left of him.”

“What’s left…” he begins, trailing off for a moment before realizing, “Wait… _here_? As in here, right now?” She nods sadly. “In this room?” A shadow passes over her irises as she again nods. “You see him… right now?”

Without uttering a word, she slowly raises her uninjured hand and points to the far corner of the room.

“This is crazy,” Steve mutters, running a hand through his hair in obvious frustration. He too points across the room, mirroring her motion as he shouts, “There’s nothing there!”

Tessa looks at him briefly, then raises her eyes to Cal, who no longer looks angry, just… confused. Frightened. He gazes at her, his countenance dark. “What’s left of me?” he asks in a voice smaller than she’s ever heard it in all their time together.

She shakes her head dejectedly. “Just this,” she tells him. Then, turning back to Steve, she says, “He looks like he’s been shot. Multiple times in the chest.” Her gaze is sad but sturdy as she says to him, a profound sort of authority lacing her words, “See if you can find out what happened… who killed him.”

“Who killed him?” Bruce repeats with a stunned warble.

But his voice is drowned out – in her ears at least – by Cal’s exclamation. “Wait. Just wait,” he says as he moves across the room. “You _really_ think I’m dead?”

She pulls back as he approaches, the slight sound of paper wrinkling beneath her as she recoils just enough to cause Cal to halt and Steve to straighten on guard, unconsciously stepping closer to her side. “Yeah,” she says simply looking into his oh-so-familiar gaze. “Yeah, I think you’re dead.”

Bruce’s eyes widen as he watches the strange interaction. “He doesn’t know?” he asks, a near giddiness to his voice. Steve shoots him a warning glare, which he easily shakes off, choosing instead to press Tessa with more questions. “You really think he’s dead? And you’re seeing him here? His _ghost_?”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Steve states with authority, tightly folding his arms over his chest once again.

“See?” Cal barks out, eyes wild. “Ghosts aren’t real. So I’m not a ghost.”

She sighs loudly. “It’s energy,” she says to no one and everyone. “The soul, essence…” She shrugs. “I don’t know what you want to call it.”

Bruce’s face lights up. He’s absolutely fascinated by all of this. “You’re saying that the soul is real, but not in a metaphysical sense? In a… _physical_ sense? It’s a… a… life force?”

“Sure,” she says with a shrug. Then, following a long, pained groan, she admits, “I’ve been watching a lot of scary movies lately.” She looks up to the men in front of her – Bruce with a confused and furrowed brow and Steve with a sudden pretentious lift of his brows.

“So you’re just…” the blond starts, shaking his head admonishingly. “You’ve been freaking yourself out… and you hit your head… and now you think you’re seeing ghosts!”

“No,” she argues weakly. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying?” Bruce asks slowly.

She shrugs again. “I don’t know.” Shakes her head. “I don’t… I don’t know.” She looks up at Cal, his already pale face looking almost translucent, his wide, terrified, _alive_ eyes standing out in sharp contrast to the rest of him. “I’ve been thinking about him lately too,” she says softly. “About Cal.”

“Why?” Steve asks, almost choking on the word.

She allows Bruce to take her hand in his so he can wrap her wrist in an ace bandage. Her gaze falls down to watch him do his work, a welcome distraction. “Shuri said that someone took the M-gene samples to Wakanda to sell them.” She looks up from beneath heavy lids, training a dangerous glare on the _ghost_ across the room. “I know who stole those samples… who sold them.”

Cal lets out a sharp huff. “That was… yeah, sure. But that was years ago. And nobody in Wakanda bought them. I sold them to some guy up in Canada.”

“Canada?” she asks, raising a questioning brow.

Bruce pauses his task and looks up at her. “Canada _what_?”

“He said he sold the samples to someone in Canada.”

Cal takes a long step forward. “Don’t tell them that!”

Steve’s arms drop to his sides as he steps over towards Bruce, throwing no more than a quick, sidelong glance in the direction of the apparent apparition. “We should call Bucky.”

“Can you reach them?” Bruce asks without looking up, eyes remaining trained on his patient’s wrist.

At the same time that the words leave his mouth, she hears Cal, his voice no longer scared and meek, but almost disgusted as he asks, “What the hell is a _Bucky_?”

She lets out an irritated breath and tries to ignore the words that only she can hear. “You don’t need to call him.”

“Is that your cat?” he interrupts, amusement now playing on his tongue. “Why do you even have a cat?”

“Would you seriously shut up?” she exclaims.

Steve – who had been mumbling something she’d been unable to take in – startles before her. “Sorry, I was just saying –”

“No,” she interrupts quickly, waving a dismissive hand. “Not you.” She glares over at Cal before turning back to her friend. “Wait, what?” Had he been talking to her? “You were saying what?”

His brows knit painfully together as he gazes at her, a mixture of confusion and concern and… uncertainty radiating off of him. “I was saying that Bruce is right, we probably can’t reach him right now anyway. Nat should be checking in tomorrow or the day after. Maybe we can figure all this out before then.”

Cal steps closer to the group, leering over Steve’s shoulder as he lets out a loud snort. “ _Figure all this out_? What’s this guy’s deal, huh?”

She works to ignore his voice and stay focused on the two _living_ men in front of her. “It’s got to have something to do with his energy… and my energy…” She drops her head and begins to furiously shake it back and forth. “I don’t know… energy in general?” She shrugs, the motion small and uncertain. “Maybe I somehow… invited him in.” She looks up at Bruce and locks onto his curious gaze. “Because I’ve been thinking about him?”

“And because you’ve been watching horror movies?” he questions with a teasing lilt.

She shrugs. “Could’ve made me more open to it.”

“Maybe. I guess I don’t really know how your powers work.”

Her eyebrows drift up as she admits, “Neither do I. Not really. Not always.”

Steve lets out an irritated huff. “Fine,” he breathes out. “Let’s say this is… actually happening. And this… _ghost_ is here.” His posture straightens, jaw tensing. “How do we get rid of it?”

“ _It_?” Cal leans in, closely inspecting Steve’s defiant face, his nose just a fraction of an inch away. Tessa watches with an almost amused curiosity as he begins to circle the man. It’s rare to see anyone chest thump in front of Captain America. But right now, Cal seems to be doing just that. He straightens himself as he steps in between Steve and Bruce, pulls up to his full height, which allows him to loom just a bit above the oblivious blond super soldier. He turns to her then, a crooked smile on his bloodied face. He narrows his eyes playfully at her. “Are you fucking Captain America?”

She starts, no longer curious or amused. “What?! No,” she shouts, earning new looks of shock and confusion from the other two men in the room.

“He seems pretty protective of you,” Cal mutters with a wink.

Bruce leans in, unable to hide his absolute fascination. “What did he say?” he almost whispers.

She turns to him. “He thinks Steve and I are sleeping together.”

“What?” Steve spits out, whirling around to look at… nothing, training his gaze on the empty spot that Tessa had been addressing a moment before. “Why would…” He stops himself short, clamping his mouth shut. His eyes close as he slowly shakes his head and pulls in a steadying breath through his nose. When he opens his eyes again, they’re hard as steel. “You need to figure this out,” he says, icy glare bouncing steadily between the two scientists in front of him. “Whatever the hell this is… you need to figure it out.” And he traipses angrily from the room.

Bruce glances down at Tessa’s wrist as he finishes securing the bandage. “I’m assuming he was talking to you,” he tells her as he takes a step back and connects with her troubled gaze. “Because I don’t have a damn clue.”


	20. Without Hesitation

There were no cabins south of town, no evidence of campsites either. But just a few hours into their trek, the small group of Avengers did find something… odd.

“A skull?” Steve repeats as Natasha regales him with the details of their day. Well, _most_ of the details, anyway.

“Human skull,” she repeats into the sat phone. “It was partially dug up already, so we’re thinking animals probably got to the rest of the body.

“Any idea whose it is?”

“Unclear,” she states simply. “We found some tattered remnants of clothes, but nothing else.”

“Okay,” Steve mutters distractedly on the other line.  

“We’re heading back out in a bit to look for more. They must’ve _gone_ somewhere out here. _Stayed_ somewhere. We just need to find where.”

“Negative,” he says suddenly. “Pack up what you’ve got and head back in.”

“But…” she starts, additional words dying on her tongue as she tries to wrap her brain around his strange order. They _finally_ have something out here. And he wants them to just pack up and head in?

“Let’s get an ID on this… skull. And regroup.”

A disconcerting tingle begins to wind its way along her nerves. “Steve,” she starts, her voice dropping an octave in that way that tells him she’s about to argue.

But he shuts her down before she can start, stating simply, “That’s an order,” and then letting the line go dead.

000

Bucky is just as confused as the rest of them as to why they’d be called back now. And frankly, he’s more than a little peeved about it too. But he’s also, after nearly two weeks in the field, relieved to be going home.

All that he wants – all that he thinks about during the nearly nine hour trip back to New York – is kissing his girl, collapsing into his bed, snuggling with his cat, and sleeping for 24 hours straight. And a shower. He definitely needs a long, hot shower. And a burger wouldn’t hurt either. Yeah. That’s what he needs… a kiss from his girl; a long, hot shower; a giant burger; his own bed to sprawl out onto; some love from the cat; and 24 hours of sleep.

It’s a good plan. A solid plan. Maybe the best plan he’s ever had.

And it all gets stomped to shit the moment he dismisses Atkinson and Robson and walks out of the hangar.

The first thing he notices is that both Sam and Steve are standing idly side by side in the hall, clearly waiting for him. “That’s not suspicious,” Natasha singsongs as she brushes past him.

Sam steps up, eyes boring into Bucky as he calmly utters three terrifying words. “Don’t freak out.”

Romanov scoffs lightly as she lingers by the Falcon’s side. “Yeah, that’s just what you want to here as soon as you park your jet.”

Bucky’s sure that whatever it is isn’t _too_ serious. If it were, Steve would be at attention, not leaning back into the wall with his arms tightly folded over his chest. But he is a bit concerned about the fact that his best friend seems to be actively avoiding looking at him, seeming to focus instead on maintaining a rather intensive scowl as he stares ahead at nothing. “What?” he barks out, not at Sam, who’s now standing directly in front of him, but at Steve.

A long, pained, deflated sigh escapes Steve’s lips as he slowly pushes off the wall and finally makes eye contact with his friend. “Something… weird happened,” he says, his tone cautious.

Bucky rolls his eyes in response. He’s exhausted. He’s dirty. He’s still a bit burned from being in the sun all day. And he’s in no mood for riddles or guessing games. “Just tell me.”

“You remember Cal? Tessa’s ex?” Steve questions, curious brow quirked.

His entire expression changes on a dime… face contorting into a bitter grimace, tired eyes burning bright with something akin to rage. “You found him?” he bites out through gritted teeth.

“Or did he find us?” Natasha asks, a worried edge to her voice. “Tessa?”

Steve parts his lips to speak, but is immediately struck dumb. His mouth clamps shut so suddenly that his teeth audibly knock together, and he turns wide eyed to Sam for help.

“He’s dead,” Sam says with a small nod towards the mute man, obliging him by taking over the narrative. He turns to face Bucky and with a weighty gaze he adds, “And he’s here.”

000

“I’m not really sure what I can do to help,” Wanda ekes out. Her eyes continue to flit side to side, searching anxiously for something – _someone_ – who isn’t quite there.

Tessa sinks down into her couch, flinging her forearm over her eyes as she mutters, “I’m not really sure either.”

“I mean… I can… I _sense_ him too.” She clears her throat awkwardly, still looking around the room, anticipating a man to at some point simply materialize before her. “But I just don’t… see him. And I don’t know how to communicate with him.”

“I can think of a way,” a deep voice that only Tessa can hear utters playfully. She drops her arm, opens her eyes, and glares over at Cal as he looms lecherously by Wanda’s side. “I can think of a few ways, actually.”

“Stop it,” she barks at the man. “Leave her alone.”

All color drains from Wanda’s face as she asks, voice small, “What’s he doing?”

“He’s hitting on you,” Tessa says with a deep roll of her eyes. Then, looking just past her friend, “You’re dead, Cal. You’re officially out of the game.”

Wanda breathes a quick sigh of relief – not that she really thought Tessa would allow a ghost to threaten her, but still glad that the dead/undead man lurking around her is just a creep and not an actual danger.

“Sweetheart,” he intones, raising a seductive brow at Tessa, “I _invented_ the game.”

She shakes her head – “You’re such an asshole.” – and drops even lower down the couch, throwing her arm back over her face in an attempt to shield herself from the _energy_ that refuses to leave.

“Someday, you’re gonna come crawling back to me,” he announces with a smug smirk.

She doesn’t even bother removing her arm or opening her eyes. “You’re dead. And I’m engaged.”

He snorts out a laugh. “You keep saying that, but I don’t see a ring.”

She bolts upright, irritation lacing her features. “It’s right _here_ ,” she shouts, shoving her left hand in his face.

He lets out a _psh_ and a short laugh. “No diamond, no engaged. That’s the law.”

She gives him an utterly unamused look. “What the hell would you know about the law anyway?”

“Apparently more than your _fiancé_ ,” he states glibly.

She leans forward and drops her head into her heads, presses her lids tightly shut to try and stave off the steadily growing pounding between her temples. “How could I be with you for so long?” she mutters, mostly to herself. “You’re such an idiot.”

He steps forward and kneels down beside her. If he had any breath at all, she’d be able to feel it, hot and steady, on her neck when he whispers, “I hear I was a great lay,” followed quickly by, “Does your _fiancé_ fuck you like I do?”

“Did,” she corrects, letting out a long, tired breath. “Past tense. Does he fuck me like you _did_ …”

A loud, tense, guttural throat clear sounds from the other side of the room, causing Tessa’s eyes to fly open as her head shoots up. “Awkward,” Sam intones as he looms just behind Steve in the doorway.

Her gaze moves swiftly to Steve’s left, where Bucky stands, shoulders hunched, tight fists flexing by his sides. His mouth is slightly agape, but there’s still an overwhelming tension in his body, his jaw ticking visibly as his light blue eyes connect with hers.

She pulls in a startled breath. “Hey,” she utters nervously. “You… you’re back.” She wants to get up and move across the room to hug him, but the air is thick with a sense of hesitation, distrust… betrayal.

“Yeah. I’m back,” he says simply, squaring his shoulders and setting himself stiffly upright.

She turns to Steve, connecting with his concerned gaze for just a fraction of a second before pressing her eyes shut again and slowly shaking her head. “What did you tell him?”

“That your ex-boyfriend is haunting you,” he states plainly, eliciting a sudden laugh from Wanda as she continues to sit across from her friend, drenched in absolute nervous discomfort. Steve shoots her a quick chiding look before turning back to Tessa. “I thought it’d be better than him coming home just to find you sitting there talking to yourself.”

Wanda rises swiftly from her seat. “She isn’t talking to herself.”

“Can you see him too?” Sam asks with a curious glance.

She shakes her head. “No. But he’s here. I can sense him.”

Tessa smirks as she looks over to the small group gathered in the doorway and lets out, “We’re thinking of starting up our own ghost hunting business. Maybe turn it into a reality TV show.”

Cal stands upright, not budging from her side. “That’s offensive,” he mutters, all the while eyeballing the new man in the room.

“Shut up,” she tosses back at him.

Bucky watches the exchange with an utterly unreadable expression, his fists still slowly clenching and unclenching at his sides. The entire room falls into an anxious silence as everyone looks at him, back at Tessa, back to him… waits on either of them to say… something. Anything.

Finally, he nods, still releasing no words. He clamps his mouth shut and hoists the bag he’d been viciously gripping in his metal hand up over his shoulder. And he calmly heads back to their bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

“So that’s the boyfriend, huh?” Cal asks casually.

“Fiancé,” Tessa corrects, a deep frown taking over her face.

“He seems great.”

She turns on Steve, staring him down. “You just had to tell him,” she bites out. “You couldn’t have even warned me?”

“I thought he should know,” he defends.

“That doesn’t mean it’s your place to tell him!” She rises from the sofa and, just as she’d been doing throughout most of the past two days, begins an aimless pace across the room. “You think that… you just always have to do what _you_ think should be done.”

“This sounds familiar,” Wanda hums almost to herself.

But Steve hears, shooting her a cross glance as he states, “I was just trying to help.”

Wanda raises her eyebrows at him, giving him a reprimanding look of her own. “I _know_ I’ve heard that before.”

Tessa’s face burns with a righteous rage as she turns on him again. “Not everything is your business, Steve. Fuck! You’re such a… a… tattletale!”

Sam stifles a laugh, but Cal lets loose with a huge guffaw as he asks, “Did you just call Captain America a _tattletale_?”

“Stop calling him Captain America!” she screams at the ghost by her side.

“He’s…” Steve starts, brow furrowing. “He’s talking about me? What’s he saying?”

She looks up at him again, her eyes wild. “You are just so… so… _ungh_!” And she storms from the apartment, pushing through him and Sam on her way out the door.

“Oh man,” Sam breathes out once she’s gone. “You made her so mad, she lost her words.” He shakes his head, a stunned expression settling on his face. “I didn’t even know that could happen to Tess.”

000

She spends about an hour in her office, laying on the old sofa that smells of… well, old sofa… but always somehow reminds her of Bucky. She turns out the lights, asks Friday to blare some music to drown out any _unwelcome_ conversation, and does her best to ease herself out of the impending migraine. Admittedly, it’s an almost unachievable feat… the loud drone of music not exactly being the best thing for a headache. But after an hour passes, she does feel better _enough_ to at least pull herself off the couch and return to her apartment. Which she timidly hopes is devoid of everyone, save her fiancé.

No such luck.

“So that’s him, huh?” she hears from the kitchen doorway as soon as she returns home. One would think that, after two days of him following her everywhere and popping up unannounced, she’d be used to Cal’s voice cutting in through the din of an empty room, his form materializing fully in front of her without warning. But she’s not.

She stiffens at the sound, turning slowly to face him with a weary gaze. The deep pounding that had retreated begins building back up inside her skull. “What?” she asks dully.

“That’s the guy?” he questions, stepping closer. “The guy who doesn’t even know what an engagement ring is _?_ ”

She breathes out an exhausted sigh. “You’re just saying that because you used to deal blood diamonds.”

He pushes out of the doorway and steps up to her, peers over her shoulder at the shut bedroom door as though he can see Bucky standing behind it. “What’s with his hair?”

She narrows her eyes at him and asks snidely, “What’s with your face?”

“That’s mature,” he chuckles.

“Really? The ghost who followed me into the bathroom earlier and told me to courtesy flush is calling out _my_ level of maturity?”

Even through the splatters of blood on his pale face, she can make out the cheerful beam as he replies, “Just trying to help you out, sugar.”

“I was peeing!” she shouts bitterly.

“What?” Tessa turns suddenly to see a freshly showered Bucky staring at her with suspicious eyes. She hadn’t even heard the bedroom door open… damn his stealth. She’s honestly not sure how long she can make it being surrounded by men who sneak up on her like that.

“Nothing,” she breathes out. “Just…”

“Were you talking to him?”

“No,” she spits out. Then, the truth feeling almost like an afterthought, “Yes. But…” She spins around to see if Cal’s still there and is not at all surprised to find that he’s not. She can still feel him in the air, but his energy is more… fluid and spread out.

This is how the past two days have gone… he’s here one minute, gone the next. Sometimes she sees him fully in front of her, as though she can reach out and touch him. Sometimes he’s little more than a shadow moving about in the corner. Sometimes, like now, he’s just a sort of inkling, a wisp of energy in her periphery. “He’s gone,” she says simply, turning back to face Bucky.

He cocks his head and gives her a confused glare.

She shrugs. “He’s here, then he’s gone. I don’t know. I don’t know how this whole _spiritual medium_ thing works.”

He takes a cautious step forward, still glaring at her apprehensively. “Is that what this is?” he asks, voice small and hesitant.

“I don’t know what this is,” she tells him honestly, feeling the sudden, unbearable urge to be in his arms.

He’s been gone for two weeks. She missed him like crazy. And now? Now all she wants is for him to hold her like he normally would. Hold her and kiss her and nuzzle her close, just like he’d always done when they spent more than a few nights apart. But he’s standing so utterly still in front of her that she can’t even tell if he’s breathing. So still – and so far away – that it’s plainly obvious he has no desire to reach out and pull her close.

She bites down on the corner of her lip and looks away shyly. “I know it’s… crazy.”

“Yeah,” he mutters inside a sardonic laugh. “It’s not exactly what I expected to come home to.” His eyes drift down to her wrapped wrist, concern etched across his face as he points at it and asks, “What happened there?”

She lifts her hand to see, having all but forgotten about the sprained appendage. “I fell off the couch,” she admits with a shrug. “It’s just a sprain. No big deal.”

He quirks a small, amused grin at her. “How’d you fall off the couch?”

“Well,” she starts, pulling in a deep breath, “I woke up to find my ex-boyfriend’s ghost in my apartment. Kinda freaked me out.” Her gaze shoots back over to him, takes in the sharp tick of his jaw, a somberness quickly replacing any hint of levity. “I’m sorry,” she mutters before stepping back and leaning heavily against the wall, folding her arms tightly around herself to keep from reaching out for him.

He nods his head absently, the tiny bit of movement seeming to help pull him from his stupor. His shoulders drop just the smallest amount as he releases a long, deep sigh. “So…” he starts, looking up at her with an almost frightened expression. “What… um…” He clears his throat harshly. “What are you going to do… about… this?”

“I asked Steve to help figure out what happened to him. He was shot, but that’s all I know. And he doesn’t seem to remember anything.” She shrugs. “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know.”

“But, how…” He slowly unfolds his arms from across his chest and takes two large strides to close the distance between them. “What are you going to do to get rid of him?” he asks, his voice deep and quiet, as though someone other than the two of them might be close enough to hear.

“I don’t know,” she states plainly. She’s so desperate to touch him that it feels like her fingertips are burning with the desire. She looks up at him through heavy lashes. “I missed you.”

She can feel the reluctance radiating off of him. The fear. But there’s also a want within him, a need. And she can feel that too. It’s a low, deep hum trembling off of him, reverberating through the air and brushing against her skin.

He slowly brings his right hand up and weaves it into her hair at the base of her skull. “I missed you too,” he mutters, leaning down to rest his forehead on hers.

“Do you want something to eat?” she offers meekly, taking care not to pull away in the slightest.

He shakes his head just a bit, never pulling away from her either. “No.”

“Did you see Eddie?” she asks lightly. “He’s been hiding from me. Did he come out to welcome you home?”

He smiles, releasing just the smallest breathy chuckle. “Yeah,” he nods into her. “He’s still on the bed.”

She takes a chance then and unfurls her arms from around herself, reaching out to wrap them around his middle instead. Her eyes blink shut as she prepares herself to feel his body stiffen at her touch. When it doesn’t, she breathes a sigh relief, dropping her head down onto his shoulder and squeezing him tight.

“Baby,” he starts, a breathy utterance that he so often uses in place of _we need to talk_.

The moment she hears the word roll off his tongue, she fears that he’s going to bring it all up again. That he’s going to want to talk about Cal. That he’s going to pull away from her and look at her with that scared, confused gaze that makes her feel like she’s a complete stranger to him.

She doesn’t want to be a stranger to him. She wants to be the woman he knows. And loves. She wants to show him that she _is_ that woman. So before he can say another word – before he can begin the conversation that they both know is unavoidable – she moves in to capture his lips with hers, tugging him close as she kisses him almost violently.

Any hesitation he had been feeling is swiftly washed away by her desperate touch. He falls into her, pushing her back into the wall and pressing himself tightly to her. Her hands move up beneath his shirt, nails digging into his back, stinging his flesh just enough to elicit a deep, guttural moan. It bubbles up the back of his throat and falls into her open mouth where the sound melds with the short, tight squeak she so often lets out just for him.

His hands drift down to her ass and grip tightly, pulling another sound of pleasure as he hoists her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and mutters rapidly into his ear, “Please, please,” amid tight, short gasps.

He drops his lips to her neck, trailing his teeth along the arch of her shoulder. “Please _what_ , baby?” he asks, refusing to wait for a response before hoisting her higher and carrying her into the bedroom.

The cat lets out an irritated screech and jumps from the bed when Bucky drops her down onto it. She refuses to completely disentangle her legs from around his hips, locking her ankles together at his low back. He stands upright and reaches around to pry her legs apart, easily popping off her shoes and letting them drop to the floor behind him. He leans down just long enough to undo her jeans and give a quick, sharp tug… but it’s to no avail. She giggles almost maniacally as he struggles with her pants, pulling her closer to him with every rough jerk as the skinny jeans leech to her legs.

“Come _on_ ,” he mutters as he wrestles with the stupid, tight pants. The louder her laughter becomes, the more he feels the need to hold her, to touch her, to be inside of her, burn through his body. He gets the jeans down almost to her knees before stepping back and quickly shucking the sweatpants and T-shirt he’d thrown on after getting out of the shower. Then drops down on top of her, his face splitting into a wide, ridiculous smile as she heaves with laughter beneath him. “Fuck it,” he says through his own chuckle as his metal fingers wrap around her panties and tear them apart.

She throws her arms around him as his lips drops again to her neck, weaves her fingers into his still wet hair and pulls back so that he’s forced to look up and meet her eyes. “I love you,” she breathes out, her breath hitching as he slides his fingers into her, repeating the phrase back to her with nothing more than his touch. “I love you,” she says again, the final word punctuated with the small squeal that lets him know she’s ready.

She shimmies beneath him, desperately trying to rid herself of her jeans so she can wrap her legs around him once more. He slides his fingers out of her and slips off the bed to peel the pants from around her ankles. As soon as she feels his weight lift off of her, she pulls herself up just enough to yank off her shirt, but that’s all she has time to do. Once the evil skinny jeans are gone, there’s nothing that can keep them apart. He falls onto her once again and works himself into her, moving slowly at first, patiently as she hikes her legs up around him.

He props himself on his elbows to avoid crushing her and drops down to kiss her, slamming his teeth into hers in desperation. She claws at his back once again and arches up into him, tight gasps of, “James. Jamie,” slipping out from her lips as they part.

He moves back to her neck, pressing kisses along the softest, sweetest, most tender part of this woman that he loves. Adores. Needs. “You smell so good,” he issues out as the scent of her hits his senses. “So fucking good.”

“ _Jamie_ ,” she squeaks out once more, tightening around him again. And again. She lets out a short gasp and digs her nails even deeper into his back. Her eyes fall shut, bright explosions of color playing out on the insides of her lids. The dull throb that had been building between her temples fades, the last tendrils of pain slithering off and leaving only ribbons of ecstasy in their place.

She grips him tighter, arching higher, pulling herself closer to him. He thrusts once more, closes his eyes, breathes in her smell, and lets her finish him.

She releases a small, amused giggle as his elbows slowly slip out from under him and he collapses on top of her. He doesn’t actually drop all his weight on her, of course, but she settles beneath him just the same, the weight of his body on hers lending comfort, a soothing reassurance that she hasn’t felt in weeks.

He’s here. He’s home. He’s back in her arms. And for the briefest of moments she’s able to forget about everything else – about work and his mission and the outside world. About her unwanted guest. She lets all of her worries and woes slide away, oozing out her pores and slipping easily off of her sweat-soaked skin.

Until, “Does he fuck you like I did?” sounds in a deep, stilted tone from the foot of the bed.


	21. Hurt

“Bernard Kramer,” Steve states with authority, as he leans over the conference table to pull up a file on the holoscreen. He takes a step back to peer at the man’s image on the screen, folding his arms stoically over his chest as he recites what few details are known about him. “Thirty-two years old. Born in Quebec. _Current_ resident of Toronto. He has a PhD in biomechanical engineering from Stanford, so he spent some time in the states.”

“So how did his skull end up in Brazil?” Robson asks with a disinterested air.

Steve reaches over and slaps the pen being twirled absently between the man’s fingers out of his hand and across the room. “That’s what you’re going to find out,” he tells him with a raised brow and commanding tone.

Robson immediately shifts in his seat, pulling himself staunchly upright. “Yes, sir.”

The Captain gives him a sharp nod and turns to Natasha. “You’re running point on this. You found his body – ”

“Technically, we only found his head,” she interrupts blandly.

He stares her down, unwilling to be sidetracked from his orders. “Now I want you to find out everything you can about him. Start with his work – not just the firm that reported him missing in January. I want to know his _entire_ history. I want to know _who_ he knew and how well he knew them. I want to know how often he went to Brazil, and what he told his friends, family, co-workers about it.”

“Why is she running point?” Bucky asks suddenly from the opposite end of the table. There’s a tense sharpness to his voice that sets everyone in the room on edge.

Steve looks at him assessingly for a long moment, takes in his defensive posture, the almost dangerous stare put forth by too tired eyes. “You’re not part of this anymore,” he tells him carefully.

His reply is simple. “Bullshit.”

“I want you here,” Steve says with a defeated sigh. “Romanov can handle Robson and Atkinson on her own. There are other… things I need your help with.”

Bucky glares at him openly, not shy at all about his irritation. But he says nothing, only gives a sardonic snort as he angrily rises from his spot at the table and stalks out the conference room door.

“Such a professional,” Natasha snipes, her eyes trailing after the man.

Steve raises a pointed finger at her, his words dripping with authority when he issues out, “I want a full report by the time Sam and I get back.”

She turns to him, brow furrowed in confusion. “Where are _you_ going?”

“Back to Brazil,” he states simply as he flips off the holoscreen. “Might be suspicious if you guys go back, so we’re gonna head out to where you found the body – the _head_ – and see what else we can find. Hopefully we can track down whatever base they used when meeting up out there.”

Her eyes flick back and forth between the two recruits across from her at the table. “Sure you wouldn’t rather swap Sam out for me?”

He quirks a brow in her direction, looks over at her with a crooked smile. “I hear you three have built up quite a report. Wouldn’t want to split you up now.”

Atkinson releases a small scoff and says – more to herself – “But you’re fine with pulling out Sergeant Barnes.”

He glances at her quizzically, but says nothing, instead turning back to Natasha to tell her, “You leave for Toronto in four hours.”

000

Somehow, despite having just a couple of hours left to pack and prep before leaving on their op, Atkinson finds herself wandering the compound in search of Bucky. She finds him – finally – in the gym, jogging steadily towards nowhere on a treadmill in the corner. She stops in her tracks, biting down hard on her bottom lip as she watches the muscles of his back stretch and pull beneath his sweat-soaked T-shirt.

A small sigh escapes her lips as she hears Robson’s words from just a day ago echo in her ears. _A crush is one thing. But a crush on a superior… that’s playing with fire._

A crush. It sounds so… juvenile. So silly. The truth is, she just plain _likes_ Sergeant Barnes. And she respects him. He’s tough and smart and he doesn’t take shit from anyone. He’s fiercely protective of his team, adept at gauging the terrain and adjusting directives if needed. And he’s utterly dependable in the field. All things that _anyone_ would appreciate in their leader.

But – _no_ – it is more than that.

All her life, Sarah Atkinson felt like the world was never enough, craved the things that she could never have… could never be. And Sergeant Barnes just _feels_ like one of those things.

He’s calm, cool, and collected. She has too much drive to be _calm_ , too much enthusiasm to be _cool_ , and too much of a social-butterfly proclivity to be _collected_.

He’s strong and sturdy and physically intimidating – all things she _knows_ her slight 5’2 frame will simply never allow.

He’s dark and brooding and sexy. And she is – and always has been – tiny and delightful, a blond ball of enthusiasm… more a cheerleader than a sexpot.

No. This isn’t a crush. This is something altogether different.

She’s drawn to him, to all of his traits that so clearly juxtapose hers. To the qualities he possesses that she can never have on her own. With him – she thinks briefly, cocking her head to take in the glint of his hulking metal arm – the world might just finally be _enough_.

She heads across the gym and steps up next to him as he begins to slow his pace on the treadmill, smiles crookedly as she asks, “Too hot outside for you?”

They were nearing the end of April, but a swift heat wave had blown through just a day before. It was as though the burning sun and stifling air had followed them back from Brazil and settled in around the compound. He glances down at her and nods, only slightly out of breath. “Yeah.”

She leans casually against his machine, nodding as well. “After Brazil… I was hoping we’d have a break from the heat.” She casts her gaze out the wall of windows, squints against the sun that blares in despite the industrial-grade tinting. “Of course, I get to go to Canada,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows as she looks back to him.

He slows the treadmill to a stop, stands atop it as beads of sweat plummet from the tips of his hair. He cocks his head towards her, brow furrowed. “What do you want?” he asks with an annoyed bite.

She pulls herself upright, straightening under his scrutiny. “I just wanted to tell you,” she begins, unfazed by his sharpness, “that I think it’s bullshit Captain Rogers won’t let you go with us.”

He rolls his eyes and grabs his towel off the machine, tosses it around his shoulders to soak up some of the sweat that drips from his hair. “It’s not bullshit,” he says, his voice going soft, eyes dropping to the floor. “There’s other stuff that’s more important.”

Her eyebrows pull together curiously. “Like what?”

He steps off the treadmill and looks back over at her, raising his brows with authority. “You don’t need to know,” he tells her before letting out a long, deep sigh.

She looks him over carefully, notes his slumped posture, tense demeanor. He looked exhausted in their debrief earlier, a thing that Robson quickly commented on – _What, did you get so used to us that you couldn’t sleep in your own bed last night?_ – earning him an odd look of surprise before the anticipated wordless growl.

“That almost sounds like this _stuff_ is something personal,” she says, a casualness to her voice despite the uncertainty roiling inside of her.

She expects him to emit a growl in her direction, the soft rumble of discontent that everyone on the support team had grown to recognize – and humorously associate – with their often moody Sergeant. What she does not expect is for him to go eerily silent, light eyes narrowing – not in anger, but in some sort of deep thought – as he slowly pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s a look that’s so utterly human, so little-boy-lost, that she feels an excited tingle spread up from her toes just watching him.

The expression lasts only a moment – just a single moment of unabashed vulnerability like he’s never before shown in front of her. And then, as quickly as it rolled across his face, it’s gone, replaced by unreadable steel. His eyes focus on her once again, rather than staring off into the ether, and he lets out a short sigh. “Sarah,” he mutters plainly, his voice sounding just exhausted. His eyes tick up, glancing at something over her shoulder. She swings her head around quickly and sees Captain Rogers making a beeline for them from across the gym. “Just… do your job.” She returns her gaze to his, takes in the serious, commanding way he juts out his chin and raises his brows. “Focus on doing your job.”

“Hey,” Steve interrupts as he comes up behind Atkinson. He gives Bucky a nod and glances down at her. “Shouldn’t you be packing?” he asks. “You’re wheels up in just a couple of hours.”

She gives him a sharp nod, never one for any sort of insubordinate behavior, and says sincerely, “Yes, sir.” There’s just a quick flash of a smile in Bucky’s direction before she slowly turns and heads out of the gym.

“What was that about?” Steve asks with a hint of suspicion. Bucky just shrugs and grabs his bottle of water off the treadmill. “Buck,” he mutters, tone almost disappointed. He shakes his head plaintively, averting his eyes as he says, “Buck, you really should be careful with her.”

Immediately, Bucky’s forehead furrows, brows pulling tightly together in utter bewilderment. “With Atkinson?” he asks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come on,” he emits amid a short, bitter laugh. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Bucky shakes his head and lets out an annoyed groan. “We were just talking, Steve.”

“I know.”

“I have to talk to the people on my team.” He gives his friend a wide-eyed glare. “ _You’re_ the one who told me to be nice to them.”

He laughs again, this time genuine and breathy. “Yeah, I know.”

Bucky turns to head for the bench in the corner, fully anticipating that Steve will follow. “And if you’re actually worried about that bullshit, maybe you shouldn’t have paired us up for the last two weeks.”

Steve stops short, several strides from the bench where Bucky retrieves his sweatshirt. “Why do you say that?” he asks haltingly, as though he’s actually afraid of the answer. “Nothing happened there, right?”

Bucky spins around, his face an odd mixture of surprise and confusion. For a moment, his mouth hangs agape, devoid of words. But slowly he pulls it shut, jaw ticking with the effort. He narrows his eyes at Steve and steps forward, so close that he can feel the heat radiating off of the man. “What did you just say to me?”

Steve’s hands fly up in a gesture of surrender, the corner of his mouth quirking up just the slightest bit. “Hey man,” he offers lightly, taking a small step back. “Relax. You just caught me off guard, okay?”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “You and Sam and Romanov… you think it’s so damn funny to poke fun…”

“Buck…”

“This isn’t high school, Steve.”

The _Captain_ comes out then, throwing back his shoulders and issuing out in a deep, commanding tone, “I know that. This is my team. And I damn well expect everyone on it to act like a professional.”

“Tell that to the others.”

“I’m telling it to you.” Steve relaxes his posture just a bit. “This isn’t just playful ribbing,” he tells him with a serious tenor to his voice. “Not from me. _I_ wouldn’t tell you to be careful around her just because she _obviously_ has some kind of schoolgirl crush on you.”

Bucky lets out a sharp, dismissive _psh_ , but can’t quite verbally deny what his friend is saying.

“You show up at my door at eleven o’clock at night, pissed off – ”

“You’re damn right I’m pissed off!” he very nearly shouts, despite there being several others in the gym. “Some kind of… _ghost_ …” He stops short, lips angrily pinching together as he tries to find the right words.

Steve just nods placatingly. “I know,” he says. Then, again, “I know,” in an even softer tone.

“And… what?” Bucky spits out, suddenly finding his words. “What… I sleep on your couch last night and that means you need to be worried about me talking to _Atkinson_? Jesus!”

Steve’s expression pinches, something akin to disgust rolling over his features. “No,” he protests, perhaps a bit too loudly. “No, I’m not…” He pulls in a deep stilling breath, working to calm his tone. He doesn’t have to shift his gaze around the room to know that all eyes are on them. “Tessa is my friend,” he says slowly, softly. “And I know… I know how sensitive she can be. So…” He raises his brows high and gives a sudden nod. “Yeah, maybe I’m overreacting. But…”

“You’re definitely overreacting.”

He gives Bucky an incredulous look. “You spent your first night home in weeks sleeping on my couch.”

“I think _sleeping_ is a bit of a stretch,” he mutters before dropping down onto the bench behind him and swiftly cracking his neck to one side, then the other.

Steve cringes at the awful popping sound and steps forward to take a seat beside his friend. “Just before you shipped out,” he starts, leaning forward and dropping his elbows to his knees. “You were seeing, what, four different dames?” He cocks his head curiously up at Bucky, who returns his inquiring look with a confused one of his own. “I know you had been trying to get Sadie Johnson’s attention for months. Didn’t she finally agree to go on a date with you when she found out you got your orders?”

He shrugs absently. “So?”

“And the whole time you were pushing her, you were stringing Natalie… Natalie _something_ along.” He raises his eyebrows accusingly at him. “She was a sweet girl.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans. “She obviously made an impression on you. Can’t even remember her last name.”

“Can you?” he snipes. Bucky turns a dangerous glare on him. “Then, the night before you ship out, you’re with Connie. _And_ Bonnie,” he finishes with a sigh.

“You mean the date that _you_ abandoned?”

Steve just rolls his eyes. “No way Bucky Barnes went to the dance hall with two girls and only danced with one.”

“What the hell is your point?” he snaps bitterly, far too tired and annoyed to be taking a stroll down memory lane. Frankly, half of his annoyance right now is due to the fact that he really can’t remember Natalie’s last name… nor even her face. And he has no idea if he danced with both Connie and Bonnie that night, nor does he remember much more about the evening other than a flying car, the smell of stale popcorn, and saying goodbye to his little friend forever.

Steve lets out a long sigh and leans back into the wall behind him. “I know you’re not that guy anymore.” He looks over at him, connecting melancholy eyes. “I know that half the time you don’t even _remember_ that guy. But I do. And sometimes it’s hard for me…” He shakes his head and swallows thickly, allowing a solemn silence to fill the space of his unspoken words.

“I remember going around with a lot of girls,” Bucky says after a moment, his voice soft, almost wistful. He shakes his head suddenly and looks back at Steve. “But I don’t remember ever being in love.”

“I don’t think you ever were,” he tells him. Then, with a small laugh, “You always used to say you were. _Oh, Stevie, I’m in love_ ,” he mocks through a chuckle. “ _This one, she’s really something_.” Bucky knocks into him with his shoulder, a playful smirk pulling at his lips. Steve quells his laughter and pulls in a deep breath. “I know you love Tessa,” he says with absolute certainty. “I know you do.”

“I’d never hurt her,” he mumbles, almost to himself as he casts a tired gaze toward the floor.

Steve turns to look at him, takes in the slump of his shoulders, the defeated look on his face. “I’m really freaked out right now too,” he says in a near whisper. “I don’t really know what’s going on… and I don’t know how to fix it.” Bucky looks up at him, a hint of desperation in his eyes. “I know you feel the same way.”

“That guy,” he says, shaking his head, anger building gradually as he does so. “I know what he was like to her… when they were together. And he probably told Lobe who she was…”

“We don’t know that,” Steve quickly points out, earning him an irritated scowl.

“Dead or alive, he has no right to be anywhere near her.”

“Agreed.”

“And knowing he’s… there…” A deep seated fury begins to bubble in his chest, the same one that came bursting out of him last night when Tessa told him in halting words that Cal was standing at the foot of their bed, watching them.

He’d screamed and railed, shouted obscenities at a man who wasn’t even there. He’d flailed his arms through the air as though he could strike the _ghost_ of this man whom he’d promised himself almost a year before that he’d kill on sight if ever they met.

But of course, he couldn’t solely direct his anger at a ghost, at… nothing. So he took it out on the only real, live person in the room, the person who – despite all the shit she’d been put through by that asshole – was somehow so connected to him that he was able to worm his way into her very soul.

He’d yelled at _her_ then, railed against her, screamed obscenities in _her_ face. Because she had let Cal in, right? She’d somehow opened the door for him to return to her. And if she could open that door, shouldn’t she be able to just as easily close it?

But she’d argued with him. Told him she didn’t know how. Told him she _couldn’t_. Told him that – after everything he’d done – she actually wanted to _help_ this… dead man. He’d allowed her to _feel_ once – she told him that too. Cal lent her a sort of intense, ambitious energy that she needed to get her life back on track after that damn wall was built inside her head. Didn’t he understand what she owed to him? He’d made her _feel_.

And hearing that – hearing that some other man, especially one as undeserving as this one – had made her feel, had given her what she needed more than anything… some _other_ man… that had sent a shockwave of jealousy through him. It had _hurt_ like nothing he’d ever felt before.

“You should talk to her,” Steve tells him simply, dropping his palm to Bucky’s knee.

He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t think I’m there yet.”

“Okay.” He gives him a quick nod before pulling his hand away and standing upright.

Bucky looks up at him with a pitiful expression. “You mind if I stay at your place while you’re gone?” he asks, voice small and tentative. He drops his head and huffs out a tired breath. “I can’t… I just can’t go back if _he’s_ there.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve concedes. “But I still think you should talk to her. If not now… soon at least.” He waits for his friend to look up at him, for their eyes to connect, before stating, “I know you’d never mean to hurt her. But I guarantee that you staying away right now… that’s hurting her.”

Bucky’s mouth slowly falls open, readying to speak. But no words come out.

Steve just gives him one more short nod before he turns to leave – Sam’s probably waiting for him on the jet by now. “You’ve been through worse than this,” he tells him with a crooked smile. “Don’t you be the one to overreact.”


	22. The Way the World is Headed

“I’m telling you,” she says, her voice strong and adamant despite the way she exhaustedly scrubs at her face. “There’s no way. Once the Mutant Growth Hormone is in production, it’s going to continue to enhance the genetic makeup of the carrier. You can’t just… turn it off.”

“Dr. Sullivan,” Dr. Vargas intones before clearing his throat. Tessa blinks rapidly to dispel the bleariness from her tired eyes and looks up at the man on the giant screen in her office. He glances to his side at Dr. Chin – who had been brought in for their weekly teleconference as well – and gives her an encouraging smile.

Tessa waits, using all the patience she can muster, while the slight woman cautiously begins speaking. “Dr. Sullivan,” she begins, looking to Vargas for some sort of support. He gives her a decisive nod and she turns back to Tessa. “With all due respect… we believe you’re wrong.”

Tessa rolls her eyes dramatically. “Well, thank you for the _respect_.”

“It’s just…” Dr. Chin goes on, leaning forward and pressing her palms into the conference table. “You’ve been asking us to go at this from the genetic level. To try and find a way to remove or _deactivate_ the X-gene itself so that it can no longer initiate the production of the Mutant Growth Hormone. But we simply don’t have that ability. The science… it simply isn’t there yet.”

She stares down the woman on the screen. “Of course not, Dr. Chin. _You_ have to develop the science.” She flops back in her chair and sighs. “If this were easy, anyone would do it.”

Chin shakes her head. “It isn’t about it being _difficult_. It’s about it being completely impractical. If we had even just _one_ team working to isolate MGH – ”

“No,” she interrupts, voice deep and commanding.

“But,” the woman goes on. “I truly believe that we could have it isolated within the month. And from there, once we’re able to actually study the hormone, I’m certain we could find a way to neutralize its effect. That is the _best_ way to go about this.”

“Forgive me, Dr. Chin,” she begins blithely, still leaning heavily in her chair. “I’ve forgotten… how much time have you spent studying the physiology of mutants? Prior to this project?”

Vargas interrupts, his trademark, placating smile sweeping broadly across his face. “We all readily admit that you have the most experience of anyone on the team when it comes to the X-gene,” he states, cocking his head at Tessa through the screen. “But Dr. Chin does have years of experience tailoring hormone therapies in the fight against Cancer. And she’s had a lot of success. I believe it’s largely what led to you bring her on board in the first place, is it not?”

She says nothing, just continues to stare at the pair arguing with her from the other side of the country.

“She believes that we have an excellent shot at this,” he goes on. “And right now, we’re running out of other options. I suggest – ”

“I know what you’re suggesting, Dr. Vargas,” she snipes angrily. “You’ve been _suggesting_ it for the better part of a week now.” She again rubs her open palms into her face, presses the heels of her hands to her eyes, and pulls in a long, deep breath. “I’ll consider your proposal, Dr. Chin. I’ll look it over this week. In the meantime, I expect that you’ll put your resources towards the research we’ve discussed.” And with that, Tessa leans over and presses the large button that immediately disconnects the call.

Her forehead drops to the cool wood of her desk, lending just a bit of comfort and helping – if only slightly – to dispel the ache in her head. What she really craves right now is Bucky’s metal hand, his thumb pressed lightly between her eyes and working in soft, soothing circles to chase away her pain. But she knows that his cooling touch is not something she’s going to get any time soon. Not when she’s holed up in the Tower trying to distract herself with work while he bitterly mopes around the compound.

“You really got them all fooled, huh?” she hears echo from across the room. A long, pained groan rolls out from somewhere deep inside her as she slowly sits upright and takes in Cal’s still-bloodied form.

Her eyes shift behind him to ensure that the office door is shut, guaranteeing privacy before she opens her mouth to speak to the apparition. “I was really hoping you couldn’t follow me into the city,” she says with a defeated sigh.

“Nah, sugar,” he intones with a lilt, moving closer to her. “You’re stuck with me.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls herself up out of her chair, moves around to the opposite side of the desk and leans heavily against the dark mahogany as she folds her arms across her chest. “Cal,” she starts simply, ready to try – yet again – to convince him to go. But before she can utter another word, he cuts her off with a long, low whistle.

His eyes widen as they travel the length of her body. He takes in the small amount of cleavage peeking out from the lightweight silk blouse… perhaps one button too many undone. He easily notes the way her suit jacket cinches tightly at the waist, accentuating her figure. His gaze drops down to the slight flair of her hips before trailing along her slender legs as they jut out from the black pencil skirt. Finally, his lingering gaze stops at her bare feet, staring briefly at her flexed toes pecked with pale pink polish. He raises a brow and lets out a sort of _tsk_. “I gotta say, sugar, this whole high-powered business woman thing… it’s _really_ doing it for me.”

She huffs out an irritated breath, but doesn’t actually make any attempt to move, allowing his eyes to trace their way slowly back up her body. “Can we talk like adults? Please?”

“Sure.” He wiggles his brows at her and gives her a wink. “Should I call you _ma’am_?”

“Cal…” A slight blush begins to creep up her neck.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“ _Jesus_.”

He lets out a small chuckle, obviously pleased with the fact that he can still have this sort of effect on her. “The way you talked to those two,” he says, sultry quality to his voice as he steps closer to her. “Putting them in their place like that…” She pulls herself up a bit further on top of her desk, more sitting than leaning on it, as he moves closer still. The blush that had just been at her neck now burns bright along her cheeks as he leans in and whispers to her, “The way you bald-faced _lied_ to them…”

“Stop it,” she says suddenly, the words thrown angrily into the small space between them.

He laughs a bit, taking a step back and giving a quick shrug. “It’s hot. That’s all I’m saying.”

She gives him a warning stare, which only manages to encourage him.

“Hey,” he starts with a crooked smile. “Is it still considered erectile disfunction if the man in question doesn’t have an erector set?” Her angry countenance shifts just slightly, brows knitting together in confusion. “A _body_ ,” he clarifies. “I’m missing the body. Otherwise…” he trails off, eyes moving down to his crotch before slowly coming back up to meet hers.

He expects to see one of two things on her face – either the same bright blush blooming across her cheeks as she averts her eyes to try and hide her arousal, or an incredibly annoyed glare. Throughout all of their years together, those were the two most common reactions he got out of her. The shy yet lustful expression of a young woman who so often was brought to her knees by just a single hungry glance. Or the glower of a fed-up scientist eager to make it clear that his attempts at humor and seduction were nothing more than an unwanted distraction.

But what he sees instead is a sad, defeated gaze. A look of utter sorrow. Of torment. The teasing smile slowly falls from his face as he watches her eyes flick uncomfortably away for a long moment before settling on him once more. “Cal,” she says, his name coming out in a soft breath rather than an irritated huff. She shakes her head lamentingly. “I can’t do this.”

“ _This_?” he asks, a defensiveness already beginning to build inside of him.

“It’s been five days.” Her posture stiffens, arms tightening their hold across her middle. “I can’t sleep. I have this… unending migraine.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he mocks thickly. “You’re tired? You have a headache?”

“James is barely speaking to me,” she goes on, ignoring him.

“And I’m supposed to give a shit about that?” he spits back at her.

“I can’t focus. I can’t work.”

He lets out a loud scoff. “Work? You’re fucking with these people!” His arms begin to flail angrily through the air, the energy in the room quickly shifting to an almost dangerous tenor. He points an accusatory finger at her. “You know exactly how to keep that damn hormone from working. You know exactly how to stop mutant powers.”

She says nothing, just stares at him dejectedly.

“I was there, remember?” he goes on, voice rising in both volume and speed. “You think I never paid attention to your work. But I know what you did.”

“I know you paid attention,” she shoots back at him vehemently. “You paid attention so that you could steal my work and sell it to the highest bidder.”

“One time!” he shouts. “One time, I stole your research! And, let’s be real fucking honest, sweetheart, that wasn’t about the money. It was about _you_ and _me_.”

She pushes herself off the desk and stalks towards him, her eyes suddenly wide and wild. “You mean it was about _you_ fucking _me_ over!”

“You’re damn right it was! After what happened in Alberta? You…” He spins away from her and lets out a tight growl as he works to control his emotions.

“ _I_ what?” she demands. “What?!”

He turns back to her with fire in his eyes. “You strung me along… you treated me like _shit_.”

“Oh, please. I treated you like shit? How many times did you cheat on me? Huh? In fucking Alberta alone… how many other women did you fuck?”

He shakes his head bitterly. “You only wanted me when it was convenient for you. When you needed a… an energy boost or some shit. I was never a… a _person_ to you. Just… _fuck_!” He swings an arm through the air again and snaps his fingers repeatedly. “What did you call it? Some kind of fix…”

“An intensity fix,” she supplies, her voice dropping into a near whisper.

“Yeah, that. You know what that’s like? To have someone treat you like you’re just… some kind of drug? A fucking _fix_?”

Her eyes darken with guilt for a fraction of a moment before, “You think you were so much better? For five years you acted like a damn overgrown child. And you’re almost ten years older than me!”

“You knew who I was. From the get-go… I never lied to you about who I was.”

“A selfish – ”

“I’m the selfish one?!” he interrupts boldly, a look of utter shock on his face.

Tessa goes on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Careless. _Thoughtless_!”

He shakes his head bitterly. “You are such an arrogant little bitch.”

“The only thing you ever cared about was money. And…”

“And _you_ ,” he spits out. She stares him down, her jaw ticking as she presses her lips tightly together in a single firm line. “I cared about _you_. I thought about _you_.”

“You have a piss-poor way of showing it,” she bites out.

He shrugs. “Fine. I’m an asshole. Yeah, I could be selfish. And sometimes… I know that sometimes I can be just plain mean.” Her gaze drops suddenly to the floor, his acknowledgement feeling less like the beginnings of an apology and more like a build up to some sort of accusation. “And, yeah, I fucked around. A lot. And maybe that makes me a dick.”

Her head snaps up. “Maybe?”

He raises his eyebrows, gaze boring into her critically. “But you didn’t want anything to do with me…”

“Cal,” she breathes out, irritation painting the edges of her voice as she works to keep the rage at bay. “I followed you around the damn world. I moved from place to place, job to job, just to be with you. Even knowing who you were… and what you did. Knowing it was… wrong.”

He glances up at her from beneath thick, dark lashes. “You didn’t think it was so wrong in Pakistan. Or in Munich.”

She shakes her head adamantly. “We’re not talking about that. What happened in Munich…” She pauses briefly, her eyes flitting away from his gaze as she pulls in a deep, stilling breath. “ _That_ was wrong.”

He nods slowly, not agreeing with her so much as acquiescing that she has her own opinion about the merits of their shared past. “I know you think I left you,” he mutters, tone solemn. He looks up and locks onto her deep green eyes. “I _did_ leave you. A few times. But in a lot ways, you left me first.”

The room is cloaked in silence, angry, bitter energy slowing beginning to fizzle out around them, leaving space in her head for the deep ache that had slowly started to set in the moment he first appeared in her apartment. “Maybe so,” she says finally, a short utterance. She drops back down onto the edge of her desk, lowering her head into her hands for a brief moment before raising her gaze once again to meet his. “But you did leave, Cal. And I moved on.” She cocks her head at him, a sad sort of curiosity gathering in her stare. “So why did you come back? Why are you here?”

He shifts his eyes from hers. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” she says, accusing brow raised high. “I know you. You’re lying.” He looks back up at her and swallows thickly. “Why are you here?”

“Where else am I gonna go?” he asks, small, sad smile quirked. “Nobody else will talk to me anymore.”

That does get her to crack a small grin of her own. But there’s something in the way he says it, something about the lilt in his voice, the fact that he can’t quite maintain eye contact with her, that tells her this isn’t quite the truth either. Not entirely. “How did you find me?” she asks softly.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Everything was black. And quiet. Seemed like forever… Then I… I heard your voice. And I came running.”

She nods slowly, taking it all in, thinking about what to ask next. “Before everything went black, what happened?”

He shakes his head and begins to angrily stalk around the room. “I told you already, I don’t know. I don’t…” He stops suddenly, a small sigh escaping his lips as he trains his gaze on her bookshelves. He crosses over to them in two large strides, reaches out to pick up the first framed photo he sees, grimacing when his bloodstained fingers simply pass through it.

She slowly walks over to him and watches as he leans in to inspect the row of photos. “You don’t _want_ to remember,” she states plainly, no question to her voice.

He refuses to acknowledge her utterance, instead pointing at the pictures. “You look happy.”

A crooked smile pulls at her lips. “Yeah, well… yeah. I guess I am. At times, at least.”

His finger juts out towards the photo of her with Steve and Bucky at Coney Island. “With him?” he asks, a note of sadness to his voice.

“Yeah,” she replies. “With him.”

Cal spins on her so suddenly that she stumbles back, forgetting as she so often does that he can’t actually physically touch her. “He can make you happy… but can he keep you safe?”

She gives him an incredulous look and releases a small, breathy chuckle. “I can keep myself safe, Cal. I think you know that.”

He shakes his head vigorously. “Sugar,” he says, tone deep and stern, “the way things are going now… the way the world is headed…” He lets out a long sigh, eyes bouncing around the room, looking for a place to settle, any place that isn’t her inquiring gaze. But ultimately, there’s nowhere else he’d rather lay his eyes. “Not this time,” he says, looking at her with such tenderness. “I don’t think anyone can save you from what’s coming.”

Her brows pull together, a new anxious energy tingling up her spine as he looks at her with wide, dark eyes. “Tell me,” she says simply, her breath stilling in her chest as she waits for his response.

“Lobe,” he utters plainly. “He has something planned. Something big.”

She wants to ask him just how he knows this, how he has any clue what Lobe’s up to. Had he still been with him this past year? Had he been part of his attempt to capture her? Had he been the one to tell him who she was really was? She wants to ask him all of these things and so much more, but it’s too much all at once. The concession her mind makes instead is to utter simply, “Lobe?”

“He’s been doing it… turning people, regular people… giving them _powers_. But… they’re all unstable. Really unstable. Not just… I mean they’re _mentally_ unstable.” She stares at him with mouth agape, but says nothing, which he takes as his cue to go on. “He gave them MGH. But, there’s something about that…” He shakes his head and blows out a long sigh. “It’s not right. Some people died right away. The others… after a while, they got angry, violent. And they just keep needing more and more of it. The hormone.”

“You’re still working with him?” she asks, not even realizing that she’s asking as though he’s still capable of working with anyone at all.

“It started last year,” he says simply. “I recruited some subjects. That was just before you showed up. That’s why I told you to get lost.”

“You said they hadn’t started any trials yet. You said that they were just… in the beginning stages… still researching.”

He shrugs. “I thought they were. But Scofield, he said he wanted to try something. So Lobe had me find a handful of willing participants.” His eyes grow wide as he tells her, “And they were _willing_.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re saying that Scofield managed to isolate Mutant Growth Hormone?” She shakes her head adamantly. “Not possible.”

“Well,” he starts, his gaze suddenly falling down to the floor. “He did something. He managed it somehow… with those radioactive genes from Minsk.”

Her face burns bright, eyes blowing wide with shock and anger. “You said you sold them to someone in Canada… _years_ ago.”

He nods. “I did. Scofield. He was the buyer all along.”

“What?” she bites out, fury lacing the edges of her voice.

“He didn’t want to be under Genetech’s thumb,” he says with a shrug. “Course, once I got them, I had to shop around. Figured that, if he was willing to risk everything and pay what he offered, someone else would probably be willing to pay more. Turns out I overestimated the market.”

She looks like she might hit him, and for a moment he forgets how impossible that is, cringing a bit in preparation for the blow. But, truth be told, her hard, angry stare – the hints of fear and absolute betrayal in her bright green eyes – that hurts more than any busted nose ever could.

“I warned you,” he mutters simply. “I told you to stay away from them.”

“Did you tell Lobe who I was?” she asks, the words finally creeping out of her.

He shakes his head. “No. And once I found out what he did… that he tried to _take_ you… I left.”

“Then how do you know that he’s _planning_ something?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“Because I kept in touch with a couple of the subjects. Before they started dropping. And there’s one who said… He said that Lobe was trying to get him to do something. Some kind of attack. To _prove_ to the world how dangerous mutants are. That was really his hope all along, you know. Sure, some rich fucks will pay for fancy powers. But the real money is in government contracts.”

Her eyes shift, staring off at nothing as she works to process all that he’s telling her. “Convince the world they’re in danger, then sell them the solution.” She glances back up at him, a bleakness in her stare. “Mutated _super soldiers_.”

He nods. “There are plenty of people who have the same idea. The guy who I was working for, the one paying for the intel – ”

She scoffs loudly. “Of course you were keeping in touch with them for money.”

He glares only at her before continuing on. “That guy has the same plan. Figure out a way to create the next super soldier – helluva lot better than your old buddy, Captain America – and get a military contract.”

“You said he was planning an attack?” she asks abruptly, eyes wide with a sudden realization.

“Yeah. He didn’t give me details… just mentioned he’d be going to Europe somewhere. But here’s the thing. This guy, his _power_ … he’s basically a walking time bomb.”

“A bomb,” she says absently. He nods. “San Paulo.”

He furrows his brow. “How… how do you know his name?”

She pulls in a long, deep breath. “He blew himself up in front a UN assembly in Vienna. Almost three months ago.”

“Three months ago?” he mutters, shock ringing on his pale face. “But…” His mouth gapes for a long moment as he works to find his words. “How long have I been… dead?”


	23. Out of Practice

“Okay,” Steve mutters, frustration lacing the words as he quickly scrubs at his tired face. He and Sam had only _just_ gotten back from Brazil, not an hour in the door before Tessa came barreling into his apartment, tripping over her own words. “How do you know he’s been dead for months?” he asks, looking back up at her.

She continues her wild pace in front of him, pent-up energy from the long drive home – stupid rush hour in the city – making her more than just a _bit_ antsy. “He said that Lobe had something big planned with a guy he gave powers to. A guy who was a walking time bomb.”

“San Paulo,” he voices, sitting upright, suddenly on alert.

She stops pacing and nods. “Cal knew him, recruited him for the program.”

“So Lobe really was behind it,” he issues out, a disgusted note to his voice.

“And that asshole was right there with him,” Bucky snarls from the opposite side of the room.

From the moment Tessa had rushed into the apartment, eager to tell Steve that she finally got _something_ out of Cal, Bucky had not strayed from his spot near the window. He’d done nothing but stand there, leaning heavily against the wall with his arms firmly folded across his chest, bitter glean to his dark countenance.

Tessa glances over at him, surprised to hear him speak at all considering he hadn’t said a word since she arrived. The moment her eyes drift towards his, he drops his gaze, refusing to make eye contact with her. She lets out a long sigh and turns back to Steve. “He said he left just after Lobe tried to take me. But he kept in contact with the subjects he recruited.”

“Sure,” Bucky snorts out indignantly, still not looking up from his socked feet.

Her eyes flick over to him and notice his lack of shoes. Then to the couch, where she sees blankets and sheets still strewn about. Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Are you still staying here?”

He looks up at her then, his gaze steely, jaw tensed. But he says nothing.

“I told you I was staying in the city,” she bites out, irritation lacing her tone. “Have you even checked on the cat?”

“Of course I did,” he growls through gritted teeth.

Steve steps pointedly between them with an annoyed huff, eager to keep things from escalating between the two. He faces Tessa and gives her an assessing look. “Why would Cal keep in touch with San Paulo?”

She pulls in a sharp breath and glances to her right – seems to share a quick look with… no one – before stating, “He started working with a competitor who wanted intel on Lobe’s projects.” She raises an almost accusatory eyebrow. “Cal never did anything without getting paid.”

“What competitor?” he asks with more than a hint of exasperation.

She simply shrugs. “He won’t tell me.” Then she swivels to her right, making it plainly clear that – to her, at least – there is someone else in the room. “But eventually, he will.”

“I doubt it,” the ghost by her side says drolly.

Steve lets out a low groan. “He’s here right now?” he asks, running a tired hand down the length of his face. “In my home?”

“He’s not the best at making a guy feel welcome,” Cal laments, much to Tessa’s irritation. She’s asked him repeatedly not to interject when she’s with others. Failed attempts to carry on conversations may have been the least of her problems over the last few days, but it was still enough to drive her mad.

“The _point_ ,” she intones, stepping forward purposefully. “Is that San Paulo told him that Lobe wanted him to go to Europe and… blow something up. And before that could happen, he was killed. Cal, that is.”

“Good,” Bucky says blithely as he finally pushes off the wall and slides up next to Steve.

“Excuse me?” Cal retorts, the seething voice loud enough in her ear to make her cringe.

Bucky looks her dead in the eye as he takes another small step forward. “Did you ask him if he’s the one who gave you up? Told Lobe who you were?”

Tessa pauses under his scrutiny. This is the first time he’s actually looked at her in days. Sure, they’ve texted and talked on the phone a few times – mostly uncomfortable, obligatory pleasantries and inquiries about the cat – but any time they’ve been in the same room, any time she’s tried to speak with him or even just _be_ with him, he’s actively avoided her. Looking at him now, locking onto his pale blue eyes, seeing them burn with a bitter vitriol, she feels her chest ache. “I…” she sputters, feeling a sudden, dizzying headrush. She attempts to shake it off, working to steady herself – and her uncertain gaze – as she answers him. “He… he said he didn’t.”

“And you believe him?” he asks, doubtful brow raised.

Cal stiffens next to her, his angry energy permeating the air around her and making it almost too thick to breathe in. “Of course she does, you asshole!” he shouts, causing Tessa to jolt.

She shakes her head and looks away from Bucky in an attempt to ease the swell of discomfort growing in her gut. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” she tells him sharply. “He knows what he knows.” She swallows thickly, the hostile tension in the room – building thanks to _both_ Cal and Bucky – making her suddenly sick to her stomach. She turns to Steve. “San Paulo said he’d do it because he knew he was going to die anyway. And Lobe said he’d pay his family if he agreed.”

Steve’s brow wrinkles in confusion for a brief moment before his face turns strict. “Why would he think he was going to die?”

The nearly constant pounding in her head begins to intensify as her stomach continues to roil. “Cal said he was… unstable. All of the subjects were. They became aggressive and…” She trails of, unable to speak for the bile licking at the back of her throat.

“And?” Steve asks, seeming not to notice the shift in her pallor, nor her quick, short gasp.

But Bucky immediately recognizes the change in her, sees her shoulders stiffen and hunch, a green tinge darkening her skin. He steps swiftly around Steve and takes hold of her arm, whipping her around to quickly usher her into the kitchen… where she blows chunks into the sink.

She hears Steve’s sharp intake of breath as he lingers in the kitchen doorway. Cal’s deep utterance of, “Gross,” sounds from her other side. But all she’s able to focus on is the loud, unsteady energy radiating off of the man at her back.

He turns on the water and soaks down a washcloth, lays it gently over the back of her neck as she continues to lean heavily over the stainless basin. “Take a breath,” he tells her, his voice soft and quiet and just for her. He pulls back her hair and ducks his head to catch a glimpse of her pale face.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles blankly, her own energy feeling so terribly off – almost _strangled_ – as his swirls about in her periphery. Fear and anger and frustration. Curiosity and anxiety and jealousy. Worry. Annoyance. Absolute love. Unadulterated hatred. _Everything_ is so wild and tense as it flits around her. And throughout the room, mixing in with Cal’s energy… with Steve’s… with her own. “I’m sorry,” she repeats weakly. “I can’t… I haven’t…”

She’s usually able to control this sort of thing, able to put up some sort of barrier, to shut out the impressions of others. But right now everything just feels so garbled up inside of her that she’s not even sure what she’s feeling versus what the rest of the people in the room – in the _building_ – are feeling.

There’s a hint of terse annoyance – an emotion so easily associated with Bruce whenever he has to check in at the lab – that pricks at her senses. And Max’s presumptive arrogance is licking at her consciousness. She feels the myriad nervous energies that always seem to radiate off of the support team, likely running drills downstairs… each of them still being so new, so unsure of themselves. There’s a sudden waft of lust, of desire. And she nearly chokes on a laugh when she realizes – because of the stilted, almost mechanical makeup of it – that she’s sensing Vision. Without even realizing, she seeks out Wanda… and a buoyant, hopeful tickle rises deep in her core. 

Bucky continues to hold back her hair, leaning further into her to lend support as she hangs over the sink. He feels her body begin to tremble just as Steve steps into the room and asks cautiously, “Is she okay?”

Tessa presses her lids tightly together, her vision swimming. More and more _feelings_ course through her, into her, mingling with her own. “Too much,” she issues out, the words slurring as her elbow slips from the side of the sink.

Bucky grabs her quickly, wraps his metal arm around her middle to keep her from falling. He tugs her over to a chair and sits her in it, kneeling down in front of her with his hands lightly pressed into her hips. She sways in the seat and he tightens his grip just a bit, looks up at her with stern eyes. “Tessa?” His voice is deep and commanding, but she knows him well enough to discern the worry and fear crackling at the edges of his otherwise stoic tone.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles again, eyes still tightly closed, chin pressed to her chest.

He releases his hold on her hips and raises his hands to cup either side of her face. “Look at me, baby,” he demands, slowly forcing her face up. “Look at me.”

She blinks – once, twice – and works to bring him into focus. There’s an odd, colorful cloud wrapped around his shoulders, and other billowing streams of color in varying degrees of vivid and pastel shoot throughout the room. She pulls in a sharp, astonished breath. “I can see it,” she mutters, her wide eyes bouncing side to side.

“See what?” he asks, his tone beginning to falter.

She looks at him, into his glistening, gray-blue eyes. “All of it.”

000

Steve’s on the phone with Storm inside of ten minutes. How or when the two of them got so close is anyone’s guess. But as curious as she is about that development, there admittedly isn’t much room inside her head right now for such questions. Not with the deep, steady pounding drowning out almost everything else.

The walk down to the garage is both painful and oddly beautiful. All of the energies so inherent to this strange and wonderful building – and the strange and wonderful people inside it – bounce and flutter and sweep across her periphery in every possible shape and shade. Streams and clouds, light hazes and thick mists. Dark spots, like those that peck her vision after staring at something too bright for too long – and perhaps that’s what this is, perhaps she’s been staring at the wrong thing for too long – dance and flutter all around her as Bucky helps to support her weight on the elevator ride down.

Once they’re in the car – and clear of the compound – nothing but open road ahead of them, things begin to dissipate. There’s still a sort of cloudiness that settles in around each of them – Steve at the wheel and Bucky in the back, by her side. They both have muddled colors still swirling about them.

“Aura,” she mutters absently, reaching out to run her fingertips lightly through the cloud in front of her.

“What?” Bucky asks softly, apprehension curling about the word.

She shakes her head fiercely, trying to dispel the spacey feeling that’s taken up residence inside of her. But the motion sends a stabbing pain down the middle of her head, causing her to wince and gasp. “No…nothing,” she ekes out, squeezing Bucky’s hand with all her might.

He pulls her close, settles her against his shoulder, and wraps his metal arm around her before bringing his thumb up to her forehead. She lets out a dull moan as he presses lightly between her eyes. “Is this a migraine?” he asks, voice so soft that she can barely make it out over the heavy hum in her ears and the pounding in her head.

She gives a small shrug. “I haven’t felt this much… ever,” she issues with a sigh. “I thought…” She curls deeper into him, pivoting her face so that it can press against his metal shoulder, the coolness of it bleeding through his pullover. “I got so much back… remembered so much of what they taught me… I thought I could deal better… block better…”

His face twists a bit in thought. “Block out energy?” She nods against him. “Has it gotten worse? Or… harder?”

She shifts just enough to look up and meet his eyes. “A dead man invaded my consciousness.”

His brows quirk. “Fair enough.”

“Professor Xavier will help,” Steve says nervously from the front of the car. He looks at the huddled pair in the rearview mirror, his eyes boring into both of them in a wordless chide. “You should’ve called him when this all started.”

Bucky gives him a scathing look – a _mind your own damn business_ glare – and asks Tessa, “Is he here now?”

“Cal?” she asks, knowing full well who he means. He gives a single tight nod. “No,” she mutters. “I think he got scared.”

“But he’s still… around?” he asks, not quite sure how to phrase the question.

“I can still feel him, yeah. Just… he’s not… totally here.”

He nods lightly and she feels a sudden shot of trepidation – uncertainty – blow through her. “Have you been feeling… sick? Since he got here?”

She pulls in a short breath and stiffens beside him. “Yeah,” she bites out, a deeply buried bitterness rising up inside of her. “I _told_ you that. I _told_ you I felt like shit.”

“I just thought you were tired,” he replies, his voice dropping an octave. “You said you hadn’t slept much.”

She remains pressed to his side, but shifts her body around so that her back is to him. “I’m surprised you heard anything I said,” she mumbles indignantly.

He lets out an irritated huff, his hand dropping from her face as he says simply, “We’re not talking about this now.”

“You started it,” she snipes, grabbing his wrist and tugging his palm back up to her cheek. He relents – of course – issuing out a long, defeated sigh as he begins again the work of mitigating her pain through a cold, pressured touch.

000

Before they even make it all the way up the walk, the door to the mansion swings open, an irritated-looking Logan skulking in the entry. “So it’s ghosts now?” he asks with a raised brow.

Tessa stops suddenly, still leaning a bit into Bucky to take some of the toll off her shaky legs. She looks pointedly at Logan, cocking her head to the side. “You’re… _red_ ,” she mutters simply before hiking back her shoulders and trudging past.

“Red?” He spins around towards her, slamming the door shut once all three guests have entered the large foyer. “What the hell does that mean?”

She sighs deeply and shrugs. “Do I look like a metaphysical aura reader to you?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “You do seem to be leaning toward that sort of bullshit these days… seeing dead people?” He shakes his head with a _tsk tsk tsk_. “I expected more from you, Nova.”

Just then, Storm sweeps into the hall from the Professor’s study and strides over to take Tessa into her arms. “Stop it,” she chides Logan as she folds her friend into a warm embrace.

Tessa leans into Storm, placing her chin atop her shoulder. She glares at Logan as he rolls his eyes dully. “Red probably means you have a shitty attitude,” she retorts snidely.

Storm pulls away and holds Tessa at arms’ length, gives her a quick once-over before glancing to Bucky and Steve and offering them both welcoming nods. “Well, c’mon,” she breathes out, turning on her heel. “Let’s go have a talk.” She heads for the Professor’s study, expecting that everyone will merely follow.

Logan comes up behind Tessa and leans in. “What color is _she_?” he asks softly.

Tessa’s eyes bounce around the back of the woman in front of her, taking in the dancing hues emanating from her shoulders. “Green,” she mutters. “Mostly.”

He gives her a nudge when she stills at the doorway. “Well, green means go, right?”

She steps slowly into the study, closing her eyes momentarily as she does so. It’s not that she’s afraid to enter, nor anxious in any way. It’s just that the moment she readies herself to step through, Cal appears – in a rather cloudy, anomalous form – to block her path.

“Well now,” Professor Xavier announces with a smile the moment she opens her eyes again. Walking through Cal’s _force_ sends a burning chill down her spine, and he seems to recognize that, his smile being just the physical manifestation of the calming energy he’d already begun to flood the room with. “I was wondering when you’d finally come back.”

She gazes at him for a long moment, her breath hitching sharply as she takes in the brilliant array of colors and textures twirling around him. She feels Bucky take her hand, twining his metal fingers with hers. But she jerks away swiftly, opting instead to race over to Xavier and fall down before him. “I can see it all,” she mutters into his lap as she collapses before him, leaning heavily onto his knees.

He gently pats her head, brushing back her hair as he nods to the others in the room, an indication for them to sit and make themselves comfortable. At least, that’s the idea they all get, his quick look alone somehow conveying not only the request, but also the reassurance that everything is fine, and everyone can relax.

He looks down at the head buried in his lap. “It must be terribly overwhelming,” he says in a soothing tone. She nods into him, her eyes pressed tightly shut.

“What’s happening?” Steve asks, his words clipped and direct. As much as he likes Storm – and begrudgingly respects Logan – he’s never quite acquired any sort of fondness for Charles Xavier. There remains a lingering distrust, and a defensive lack of forgiveness for what he did to Tessa – to _Anna_ , really. And there’s also – though he’d likely never admit it – an aching disquiet that the man spurns in his gut. Frankly, Professor Xavier freaks him the fuck out.

But of course, this doesn’t bother the Professor in the least. The Captain is not the first to feel this way –his dislike and discomfort so easy for the practiced telepath to discern – and he certainly won’t be the last. And – attitude not withstanding – Xavier himself feels a strong affection for this man before him. For _both_ men before him. Because they both, very obviously, love his Anna. So he easily forgives the bite to Steve’s inquiry and simply raises his gaze over towards the men on the couch – both of whom share matching expressions of deeply buried fear and confusion – and says with absolute authority, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “She hasn’t been practicing.”

“What?” Steve retorts, an utterly bewildered expression taking over his face.

“None of us just magically _know_ how to use our powers,” Storm says gently as she steps forward and takes a seat in the chair to Steve’s left. “We all need to continually practice.”

“Speak for yourself,” Logan mutters as he drops down atop the Professor’s desk.

Tessa raises her head and looks up to Xavier. “But… I got my memory back. I… I remember everything I learned. Everything you taught me. You and Jean and…” She whips her head around to glance at Storm and Logan. “Everyone.”

He lets out a short chortle. “Well, yes, of course you do, my dear. But surely you didn’t think you were finished learning.” He cocks a speculative brow at her before enunciating, “ _Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever._ ”

“Gandhi,” she mutters with a nod. Then, her face screwing up in confusion, “But…”

“But nothing,” he silences her. “We talked about this when you were here last. It wasn’t just memories that were kept from you. It was knowledge of your powers.”

“Right,” she nods. “And now I have that knowledge back.”

He grins at her, lips curling up slyly. “What is it Einstein said? _The only source of knowledge is experience_.”

Steve rolls his eyes, scoffing loudly as he mumbles, almost to himself, “That’s where she got all the damn quotes from.”

She turns and glares openly at him, only returning her attention to the Professor when he reaches out, fingers grazing her chin as he guides her back to him. “For more than ten years you were without that _experience_. Even if you remember the lessons you had, even if you can now see the depth of your powers, you haven’t used them in years.”

“She’s used them,” Steve interrupts boldly. “She’s gone on missions.” His eyes connect with hers, a shining sort of pride burning in his deep blue irises. “She helped save the world.”

“Yes,” he agrees, offering the Captain a conciliatory nod. “But what you’ve seen is but a fraction of what she can do.” He turns back to Tessa. “Isn’t that right?”

She looks to Steve, a reticence in her gaze. “He knows,” she mumbles, turning back to Xavier and falling back onto her heels with a sigh. “But…” she says again, all she can think to say.

“But what’s happening _now_?” Bucky asks impatiently.

“Now,” he says, focusing on the woman in front of him. He smiles down at her and reaches out to take hold of her shoulders. “Now, my dear, those powers that have spent so very long lying in wait are _pushing_.”

“But…” Her brow wrinkles in confusion, the expression so reminiscent of the child he once knew that Xavier feels a sharp tug at the back of his mind.

He lets out a long, deep, frustrated sigh. “What did I say when you were here last?”

She wracks her brain, face scrunching up in thought as she tries to recall. “That I can be trusted with them? With my powers?”

“That you must trust _yourself_.” He gives her an almost admonishing look. “I do not think you’ve been doing that lately, have you?”

No. No, she certainly hasn’t trusted herself much of late. But how could she? When she was helping to run a company that was working to eliminate mutants… when she had all the power in the word to help in so many different ways, and instead she chose to do nothing. To hide with her head in the sand as the world all turned to shit around her. No, she doesn’t trust herself at all right now. Not even a little bit.

As though he can sense that in her – which, even without diving inside her head, he surely can – Xavier mutters, “ _That_ is why you feel them pushing. And if you don’t start trusting yourself to control them – to _experience_ them, however you see fit – then your powers _will_ break free. And even I don’t know what might happen then.”

Her eyes blow wide, a horrified expression raising up to meet his somber gaze. But before she can utter a single word, a large hand drops to her shoulder and gives a sharp, firm squeeze. “If you would believe in yourself half as much as we do,” Logan utters in a clear, deep tone, “You’d be golden, kid.”

“I…” she starts, unsure of where to go. “It’s just…” She lets out a long, deep sigh. “I guess I’ve just…” She chances a glance over at the men on the couch, catching Steve’s confused grimace and Bucky’s oddly understanding frown. She turns back to Xavier. “I guess I haven’t had time… for that part of me. To even really _think_ about using my powers, let alone _trust myself_ to.”

He gives her a serious, reprimanding look. “And you chose not to return for additional sessions.”

Her face goes stony, a defensive quality taking over her voice. “You said you’d done all you could.”

“I said I had given you _back_ all that I could.” He stares down at her in such a stern way that she immediately flashes back to be being a little girl in trouble – sent to the Professor after mouthing off in class or _accidentally_ setting fire to her workstation in the chem lab. “I never said that I had done all I could to _help_ you.”

“Careful, Charles,” Logan chimes in, a mocking tenor to his voice. “You know how Nova gets when someone implies she needs help.”

She shoots him a dangerous glare, which only elicits a soft chuckle from the typically bristly man. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are,” Xavier breathes out as he leans back in his chair. “And you’ve brought someone with you.” He raises a single, inquiring brow at her. And all at once, her focus shifts to the apparition looming just over her shoulder.

She glances up and watches as Cal completely coalesces, his bleary, nearly transparent form pulling together into the tall, enigmatic man she once cared so deeply for… into the bloodied, broken ghost she’d been haunted by for nearly a week. “Can you see him?” she asks the Professor, her eyes still trained on Cal as he glances down at the older man in front of him.

From the sofa across the room, Bucky chokes back a disgusted growl as Steve leans forward, eager to hear the answer.

The Professor’s eyes flick up to the empty spot in the room where Tessa’s gaze has settled, then back down to her. “I see only you,” he mutters. “But he is with you.”

Logan takes a cautious step off to the side, narrowing his eyes as he tries to discern something in the space where she continues to stare. “Just so I’m clear,” he begins, voice low and deep. “There’s a ghost in the room… right now?”

Tessa’s eyes ping up to meet his vigilant glare. “Scared?”

He looks down at her and sighs. “I wasn’t scared of that selfish prick when he was alive. Why would I be now?”

“Hey,” Cal sputters, dismally. She tries not to smile, hearing the hurt in his voice. But she can’t help but grin a bit when Bucky’s amused snort sounds in her ears.

She spins back around to Xavier, a bit surprised to see that his expression holds no reprimand for Logan’s course statement. “He just did tell me what happened… mostly. But…” She stops short, swallowing thickly as she debates just how to phrase the overarching issue. “But I don’t know how…”

“To make him move on?” he asks, earning an emphatic nod. He reaches out for her and she pulls herself up onto her knees once again, offering her hands to him. He squeezes gently and closes his eyes, falling into silence for a long, tense moment as he dives inside of her… in search of _him_. “He’s frightened,” he says simply. “He was all alone… and then…” His forehead crinkles in thought, breath stilling for the briefest of moments. “Then, you called out to him.”

She pulls away as though she’s been burnt, dropping back onto her heels. “No I didn’t,” she argues emphatically, willing her eyes to remain trained on the man in front of her rather than drifting to either Bucky or Cal.

He slowly blinks his eyes open and stares at her with a deep, knowing look. “It’s not just him, Anna. You called out to everyone.”

Her brow furrows and she rapidly shakes her head in denial. “No. I… I…”

His gaze shifts into an almost reproachful glare. “You called out to me last spring,” he insists. “With your dying breath, you called for _him_ …” He nods toward Bucky, noting the sudden slump to the man’s shoulders. “And once free from your body, your energy called out to me.”

“And me,” Storm mutters softly from behind her. Tessa drops to her bottom and spins around to gape at the woman. “I was in the middle of a class when I felt… cold. So cold.” She locks onto Tessa’s eyes, holding them with an almost heartbreaking regard. “I felt _you_.”

“I puked,” Logan says then, pulling her focus over to him. He shrugs blandly. “Didn’t know why. I just felt… sick.”

“I heard you screaming,” Steve mutters from the couch. His eyes are trained on his hands, watching intently as his fingers work and worry, tugging at one another as he tries to wipe away the slimy river water that he can still feel curling his skin. He looks up at her and nods. “After the comms went down… I heard you…” He breaks apart his raw hands and reaches up to tap at his temple. “In here.”

She looks to Bucky, mouth still agape. She seeks him out, but he refuses to bring his eyes up to meet hers. Refuses to say a single word about what he may have felt that day… in that moment. But she feels it all wash over her none the less – a deep, burning anguish, a nearly debilitating fear.

“I did…” she mutters softly. “I reached out,” she says, gaze trained on her fiancé. “I just… I tried to find you.”

Professor Xavier leans forward and lays a calming hand on her shoulder. His touch quells the torment bubbling inside of her, brings all of the sensations down to a manageable level. “That’s what we do in times of need. We seek comfort. We call out to the ones we love.” His eyes shift back to the empty space in the room that he _knows_ remains inhabited by someone only partially there. “You reached into the diaspora, and he found you there.”

Steve leans even further forward, cocking his head curiously. “But… that was a year ago. Cal’s been dead for just a few months.”

He nods – “Time is very different once we’re outside of our bodies.” – and turns back to Tessa. “I think _you_ know that. Energy is not bound by time nor constrained by the concept of it.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Logan mutters, utter confusion punctuating his words.

Tessa leans back and cranes her head to see him. “There’s no such thing as linear time,” she mutters before looking back to the Professor. “It’s a human construct designed to help us make sense of the world. But it isn’t a physical reality.”

Xavier smiles at her and nods. “Jean did love to explore quantum physics,” he says with a dreamy note. “And she always said you were her best student.”

Logan scoffs in the background. “I’m completely lost,” he mutters, throwing his hands up into the air. “Time isn’t real, but apparently ghosts are.”

The corner of Tessa’s mouth quirks up just a bit before she shakes her head and steels herself for what’s to come. “Doesn’t matter now anyway, right?” She connects her serious gaze with the Professor’s. “Somehow he got here. I just don’t know how to get him to _go_.”

Xavier leans forward and reaches out for her hand, wrapping it in his. “I’m going to _help_ you with that.” He raises a cautioning brow at her. “Whether you want my help or not.”


	24. Make Him Go

Steve had given Storm all of the details of their _situation_ over the phone earlier. He’d told her that Cal was supposedly dead… and apparently haunting Tessa – which she took in with little more than a patient _hm_. And he’d told her that Tessa had just raced in and explained that Cal’s ghost had confirmed their suspicions – it looked like the attack on the UN was Lobe’s doing. And of course he mentioned that she then proceeded to puke in his sink, and was seeing colors and mumbling incoherently, all of which seemed like good reasons to make an impromptu trip out to the mansion.

But as they all sat in the Professor’s study, quickly recapping what they knew, he thought of one fairly important detail that he had failed to mention to either the X-Men or Tessa as of yet. “We found the base in Brazil.”

Storm’s eyes widen as she asks, “The place the mutant bomber went?”

He nods. “We knew that San Paulo had visited the area multiple times over the last year. So we set out to do some recon.” His eyes flash to Bucky at his left, the two sharing a quick, deliberate look.

Tessa turns to him as well. “But you didn’t find anything? When you were there?”

He shrugs. “We found a human skull.”

“Nat’s collecting intel on that now,” Steve interrupts. “Sam and I went back a couple of days ago to search the area where the skull was found… do a deeper dive. And we found a small, hidden base. With some sort of lab.”

Tessa can almost _feel_ the dead man beside her jolt and tremble as he asks, voice low and timid, “Brazil?” She swings around to look at him, cocks her head suspiciously when she sees a look of fear – of realization – sweep across his face.

“The whole place was burned out,” Steve goes on, drawing her attention back to him. “Nothing salvageable… no files, no systems… nothing.” She nods slowly. “But we did find a body.”

A sudden wave of panic rolls over her, wraps around her body and mind as Cal’s terrified energy twines with hers. She let out a short gasp, causing the Professor to reach out and take hold of her hand. He sends a shock of much needed comfort tingling throughout her nervous system. She looks to him, wide eyes filled with fright.

“Let him in,” he tells her calmly with a self-assured nod.

She shakes her head vehemently as, “N-n-no,” comes sputtering from her lips.

She’s vaguely aware of a presence at her back, fairly certain it’s Bucky’s voice that filters to her in a garbled tone from so far away… “What the hell are you doing to her?”

But all she can truly hear, the only words she can make out in this instant, are the Professor’s. “He’s frightened, Anna. He simply needs a safe place to go.” She feels him squeeze her hand tightly, the gesture imbuing far more insistence than his calm, soothing tone conveys. “Let him in, and we can help him see the truth. Help him to accept what has happened.”

Again she shakes her head, a familiar panic – her own now – beginning to pool in her gut. “I… I can’t.” What if she screws it up? What if she can’t be a _safe place_ for him to shelter? What if she can’t help him to see the truth… to move on? What if she lets him in and he never leaves?

_You can._

The words echo not in her ears, but deep in the recesses of her mind.

_Trust yourself, Anna._

She gives one final, halfhearted shake of her head – one last attempt at refusal. Xavier’s expression never changes, his gaze resolute as he breathes the words into her once again. _You can._

Her eyes slide shut. And then… she sees.

The room is so bright she’s forced to squint. Harsh fluorescent lights burn in every corner, brightening the white walls and tile floor to an almost blinding degree. Everything is white… white and stainless steel. She twists around to see that the room is actually rather small. Two empty, perfectly made hospital beds line the far wall, a pristine-looking crash cart situated between them. To her right, there are multiple desks – four – each with a dual-monitor setup. But the computers are off, it seems, quiet and still. And the chairs are tucked neatly beneath the desks, not a person in sight. She turns once more and sees that behind her there’s a large plate glass window that looks into a small lab. She tries to peer in, tries to step closer to see what sort of equipment is being used, what sorts of studies or experiments might be taking place in there. But it’s as though her feet are glued to the spot.

“We are merely visitors here,” she hears from her left, spinning wildly to see the Professor sitting by her side. “We can only see what he’s seen. Hear what he’s heard. Experience what he’s experienced.”

With that, voices begin to travel to her, mere whispers steadily growing and becoming louder… clearer. She cranes her neck and sees two men suddenly standing no more than an arm’s reach away. The light is so harsh she has to blink repeatedly before she can make out their faces.

Cal. Alive and well, or at least not yet shot. Not bloodied and pale.

And Lobe.

“I certainly didn’t hire you for your brains,” the imposing bald man says as he shoves his hands nonchalantly into his pockets and rocks back onto his heels. He grins wickedly at Cal. “But I still thought you had more sense than this.”

That oh-so-familiar smile flows easily over Cal’s face – the one that’s equal parts cunning and serene, both shrewd and achingly naive. The one that she’d always found to be both infuriating and somehow endearing. “I admit,” he says to Lobe with a lilt, “I’ve mostly survived this long on luck alone.”

“And do you really think that luck will continue to hold out for you?”

“Well,” he breathes out. “It’s not looking so good right now, I guess.”

Lobe looks him up and down, his expression unreadable, as he begins to stalk in a wide circle around the tall brunet. “How much do you know?” he asks finally, stilling once he steps back in front of him.

Cal shrugs. “About your little experiments? Nothing more than what I knew when I left.”

“What did the subjects tell you?”

He raises a brow at the man when he asks, “How much have you actually told them?”

“Very little,” he admits.

“Which is why I can honestly say that I know _very little_ about what you’re doing here.”

“But you know that we’ve made some mistakes. Had… some bad luck,” he utters, a statement rather than a question.

Cal nods. “I’ve heard that, yeah.”

Lobe raises his gaze to meet Cal’s eyes, hones in on them and says, tone bitter and biting, “If I’d had her research… If Dr. Sullivan were working for me right now, we wouldn’t have had those missteps. We wouldn’t be having this spate of _bad luck_.”

Tessa’s breath catches at the mention of her name, her attention tuned almost frenetically to the conversation unfolding before her.

Cal lets out a short chuckle. “Well, I don’t think you can say that for sure.” He shrugs again, and she immediately recognizes it as a nervous twitch – a casual cover for a steadily building anxiety. “Besides, she never would’ve agreed to work for you.”

Lobe narrows his eyes at the man. “You could have convinced her.”

Another slight laugh. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“You didn’t even try,” he counters. “You begged to go to that first meeting with her in the city. Said you would talk her into joining.” He points a long, lean finger at him. “You said that if anyone could get her for me, it was you.”

His jaw ticks uncomfortably as his gaze falls to the bright, white tile floor.

“And you knew… didn’t you?” He takes a single, large step forward, positions himself a mere breath away from Cal and stares menacingly down his hooked nose at him. “You _knew_ that she was Supernova.”

_If he finds out what you are, he’ll tear you apart and sell every piece to the highest bidder._ That’s what he’d said to her that day in the restaurant, whispered in her ear at the bar after leading her as far from Lobe as possible.

Cal looks up at the man in front of him, a darkness in his eyes. “I got you Scofield,” he says in a deep, tense tone, forgoing any sort of response to his inquiry… his statement. “I got you the M-genes. I found every one of these subjects for you. Convinced these people to do something that ended up killing all but, what, two of them?”

The sickening smile washes over Lobe’s face once more. “Two shining examples,” he utters. “That’s all that I need.”

“And you’re planning on killing one of them,” he bites out. Tessa and Xavier both know – being suspended in his consciousness – that he’s referring to San Paulo and the plan for him to blow up hundreds of innocent people.

“For the betterment of mankind,” he says with a nod.

Cal scowls. “For the betterment of your bank account, you mean.”

Lobe’s face splits into an uncharacteristically wide, amused smile. He lets loose with a deep, hearty laugh. “You think I would do all of this _just_ for money?” He shrugs, turning away for the briefest of moments. “Maybe.” He turns back and glares daggers at the man before him. “Maybe not.”

“What does that mean?” Cal asks, a sudden disquiet setting his shoulders to tighten.

He sighs, long and loud. “Did you really think that you could come here and successfully bargain for the life of one man?”

“One man?” he asks incredulously. “You’re planning on… bombing people. How many people?”

“A hundred,” he offers glibly. Then, with a dismissive shrug, “A thousand.” He looks at Cal with a knowing glint in his eye, an almost imperceivable smirk perking the corners of his mouth. “It’s nothing. A drop in the bucket of humanity.” He lays a large hand atop Cal’s shoulder, his long fingers splaying spiderlike around him. “You’re not playing the long game, Mr. Calvin. You cannot even _conceive_ of one the likes of which I’m playing.”

Cal cranes his neck and glances down at the hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been around enough of your type to know bullshit when I smell it.” He looks back up at him with hooded eyes. “You all think you’re the most powerful, the most ingenious… you’re all going to somehow change the world. You’re just another pretentious rich prick who thinks he’s the next best thing.”

“The _next_ best thing?” He takes a slow step back, causally flicking open the buttons on his suit jacket. “No, Mr. Calvin. I’m not the _next_ anything.”

Cal rolls his eyes as he scoffs, his glare dropping just long enough for Lobe to reach into his breast pocket and pull out a small revolver. He steadies it on the man in front of him and waits for him to look back up. He waits for Cal’s stunned gaze to meet his. Waits for the fear to temporarily still his mind and paralyze his limbs. And then he fires.

Tessa gasps as the first bullet rips through Cal’s chest, leaving his back in a bloody swirl before traveling straight through her ethereal form. Before she’s even able to realize that the bullet made no impact on her, two more tear through him, leaving him in a bloody heap at her feet.

She watches as Lobe steps closer, looming over Cal’s choking, sputtering frame. “I am the beginning,” he states in a deep, controlled tone, gun trained on Cal. “And I will be the end.”

One final shot, the blast deafening. She involuntarily clamps her hands over her ears and shuts her eyes tightly for a brief moment. When she slowly blinks them open again, dropping her hands, she finds herself alone in the painfully silent dark.

Pitch black surrounds her, so much so that she’s not even entirely sure her eyes are open at all. And the quiet that rings in her ears… it’s a silence like she’s never experienced before. There’s no hum – not the low, consistent thrum that’s been with her for as long as she can remember, nor the louder, more intrusive one that had been reverberating through her on and off for the better part of a year. She hears nothing. Not even the low woosh-woosh of her own blood circulating. Not even the soft in-and-out of her own breath.

She parts her lips and tries to call out to Xavier. To Cal. To anyone. But again, there is no sound.

She tries again, a desperate attempt to call out… to scream, to shout, to howl. To make any sound at all.

This time, she hears it. She hears her own voice, soft and scared and so very far away. _I can’t… please…_

Ah, yes… _this_ darkness. A horrid sense of familiarity curls around her. This darkness, she knows.

_Help… please… Jamie…_

She feels herself begin to spin, the motion violent and recognizable. Spinning and spinning away. Away.

Until a hand wraps around her and steadies her. “Come back, Anna,” she hears, the words loud and clipped. Her eyes, which she hadn’t realized had closed, suddenly startle open.

Her breath catches as she furiously blinks to bring the Professor’s face into focus. She’s back. Back in his study. Back on the floor of his study, her legs crisscrossed as she sits before him, just as she had done as a small child. But she’s not a child now. No. She’s a full grown woman, she reminds herself, gingerly pulling her memories together. A doctor. A fiancée, she thinks, catching a glimpse of the ring shimmering on her finger. She looks down at it for a fraction of second before realizing that her left hand is wound tightly around someone’s arm, her fingers digging desperately into his bicep.

She glances up and sees Bucky, his gray eyes clouded with concern as he glares down at her. She can feel the unsteady in-out of his breathing, her back pressed firmly against his chest for support. “You okay?” he asks simply, his words uncertain.

She nods reluctantly and works to pull herself upright. Turning back to the Professor, she readies herself to speak… but no words come out.

He offers a small, soothing smile. “You see? You called out. Into the darkness.”

_Everything was black. And quiet. Seemed like forever… Then I… I heard your voice. And I came running._

She spins quickly around to look for Cal, her wild eyes settling when she sees him standing at her side, looming just above her with a reticent expression on his face. He nods sadly. “I know,” he says, gaze dropping to the floor. “I know.”

“Tell him,” Xavier utters softly. “Tell him what he needs to hear.”

She swallows thickly and rises achingly slowly. Bucky’s hands fall away from her as she stands. “I know it’s dark,” she breathes out, her voice sounding oddly unfamiliar, even to her own ears. “But you have to push through it.”

His face twists and he chokes out, “I’m scared.”

She reaches her hand out and presses it against his chest. There’s a coldness there – nothing solid, nothing _real_ – but a deep, burning cold in the air. “I know,” she mutters. “But you have to go.”

He shakes his head, raising his gaze to meet hers. His eyes are dark and severe when he firmly states, “No.”

She sputters for a moment, so taken aback by his vehement refusal. Mouth gaping, she turns slightly towards the Professor, her eyes still glued to Cal’s stare. “He… he said _no_.”

Xavier wheels himself just a little bit closer, his tone soft but firm when he says, “Tell him he _must_.”

Cal’s eyes widen, a sort of fury burning at his irises as he looks to the Professor then back at Tessa. “Fuck you,” he bites out. “Both of you.” He swings his arm wildly, causing her to stumble back. “All of you!”

She feels her back collide with Bucky’s chest, and the sudden reassurance that his strong presence provides helps her to gather herself enough to say, “You can’t stay here, Cal.” She shakes her head slowly and blinks her eyes rapidly to dispel the abrupt onslaught of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that…”

“That what?!” he shoots back, the lights in the room suddenly flickering overhead. “That I got killed because I tried to do the right thing – for once in my life! Or because, even though I did the right thing… and I tried to protect _you_ , you still won’t help me!”

She pushes off of Bucky and takes a threatening step forward, utterly oblivious to the continual flickering of the lights… and to the abrupt rise in temperature around them. “I _am_ trying to help you!” she shouts, sweat beginning to bead at her hairline.

“You want me to go. You want me to _die_.”

“You’re already dead,” she argues.

“Anna,” the Professor interrupts, leaning forward tensely.

But if either of them hear, they don’t make it known. Cal moves closer to her, almost nose to nose. The heat surrounding them becomes stifling and for a moment she wonders if it’s actually his hot breath licking at her neck that she feels. “You want me to give up.”

“Anna,” Xavier tries again to get her attention, this time louder, more insistent.

Tessa says nothing, just pinches her lips tightly together, jutting her chin defiantly forward as she continues to stare down the man before her.

“Well,” Cal intones, voice low and threatening. “I’m not giving up. And I’m not going _anywhere_.”

He reaches out, thrusting his arm through her, the piercing cold causing her breath to catch and her body to jolt. Bucky’s still at her back, his steadying hands now gripping her shoulders.

“Anna!” Xavier shouts, his insistence penetrating the thick air in the room with a sudden, frantic energy. “Make him go!” She looks over at him with wide, searching eyes, her countenance bleeding uncertainty. He drops his voice an octave, the tension surrounding them all slowly settling to a silent calm. He gives her an encouraging nod. “Make him go.”

She turns her gaze back to Cal, who’s form has shifted into an amorphous cloud of dreary colors and jagged textures. His face is gone, but his energy – his terrified, angry, _desperate_ energy – is still there. She feels it seeping into her very core, wrapping itself around her, squeezing her tight. She pulls in a sharp breath and feels it enter her further, choke her from within.

“Do it!” the Professor insists, his voice echoing throughout the room… his distress reverberating inside her head.

She closes her eyes and tightly fists her fingers, pulls on the threads of energy always lurking within, while pushing back on the tendrils of Cal that keep trying to force their way in.

Bucky feels his fingertips begin to buzz, the steady electric whir reverberating up his arms. He drops his hands from her shoulders and takes a cautious step back, his eyes immediately focusing on the tiny sparks of blue light leaping from her tightly closed fists. He’s felt something like this come from her before, burn through her skin and seep into his. But he’s never seen it quite like this.

Tessa raises her fists in front of her, hands penetrating the dark cloud of energy that now bears only a slight resemblance to the man she once loved. She unfurls her fingers and in one swift breath, pushes back on him as hard as she can. There’s a sudden jolt of electricity that permeates the cloud, burning through it in a startling blue that momentarily blinds everyone in the room. And then, just like that, the cobalt streaks of lightening, burn out and fizzle away, leaving a slight smell of sizzling flesh in their wake.

The lights in the room flicker once more before burning bright once again. A thick, heady silence weights the rapidly cooling air for what feels like an eternity. Until Steve’s voice echoes from the corner where he stands wide eyed, entire body trembling. “What the _fuck_ just happened?”


	25. Alone Again

Xavier assures everyone that Cal is, in fact, gone… a statement that Tessa seconds with little more than a weak nod. “Give us a bit of time,” he requests gently from the others. “Won’t you?”

Storm leads a still-nervous Steve and a terribly reticent Bucky out of the room, Logan traipsing behind mumbling something about needing a beer.

Tessa stares blankly ahead, her eyes glazed, mouth agape, for a long moment as the buzzing between her ears begins to mitigate. The Professor waits patiently, saying nothing. Two, three – perhaps five or more – minutes pass just this way, until, finally, she turns slowly towards the man in the wheelchair. “What did I do?” she asks him in a voice so small he almost misses the words.

“What you had to do,” he replies gently. “For yourself. And for him.”

She looks down at her hands, the trembling throughout her arms growing so intense that every muscle siezes until barely a twitch of her fingers can be seen. But she feels it still. Feels the drone of tired nerves desperate to regain the energy spent on… “I destroyed him.”

He shakes his head adamantly. “No, Anna. No, you did not.” He moves over to the sofa and beckons her to come and sit with a slow quirk of his head.

She stares at him curiously, as though unsure of… well, everything. “But I… I…”

Again, he directs her toward the couch, this time issuing a silent command that she hears only in her mind. _Come. Sit._

She does as he requests, crossing the room slowly and lowering herself down onto the very edge of the cushion. “I felt him… blow apart,” she says, suddenly steely eyes piercing into him.

“That doesn’t mean you destroyed him,” he says with utter authority. “Energy can be neither created nor destroyed. You are very powerful, Anna. But you are not more powerful than nature itself.” He offers her a calm, conciliatory smile, allowing it to flip to a frown when he sees that she remains unmoved – unconvinced – by his words. He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “He died months ago. You – _we_ – witnessed that. His life force should have been pushed out into the diaspora then. Finding you allowed him to… regather himself. All that you did was scatter him once more. Back out into the universe where his energy can be transmuted into whatever it is now meant to be.”

She raises her eyebrows doubtfully and lets out a harsh scoff. “That sounds all nice and good, but the fact remains that he was here and now he’s gone.” A light sheen of tears rises suddenly, clouding her vision. “I didn’t _help_ him leave. I didn’t _help_ him at all. I forced him out. I killed him just as much as Lobe did.” She falls back into the sofa, bringing her hands up to cover her face as she lets out a long, pained groan. “Fuck,” she mutters, harshly shoving her fingers back through her thick hair and sniffling away the tears. “Now there’s fucking _Lobe_ again.”

The Professor’s lips twitch, eager to issue a chide and tell her to watch her language. But, to be fair, his  thoughts are much the same. Yet another threat now burns on the horizon, eager to raze all that he’s spent decades working to build… a world where _all_ humans could live peaceably together.

He had spent so much of his life trying to help the non-mutant side of humanity. To keep them safe from the vindictive machinations of the Brotherhood. To help protect them from super-powered foes they never even knew existed. To train those who possessed the most awesome gifts so that they might be able to control and contain their powers. To keep the public blissfully unaware of the threats that mutantkind may pose.

Charles Xavier never wanted for any of his students to have to hide who – or what – they were. But he also understood that fear was a very powerful motivator. And keeping the public’s fear at bay was the best way to ensure the survival of his people. Erik Lehnsherr, on the other hand, craved that fear. He created Magneto to elicit that fear. To stoke the flames of dread that _normal_ people felt when faced with something inexplicable, something different… something greater.

Where Xavier wanted peace and – ideally – inclusion, Magneto ached to rule over those _lesser_ souls. Where Xavier sought to forgive, Magneto sought to destroy. Where Xavier hoped for a normal life for the students who walked his halls, Magneto intended for each of them to show off their prowess to the world, to aid him in ruling over those _not_ evolutionarily blessed. And for many of the students here, the way of the Brotherhood called louder and clearer than his own path ever could.

Still, he fought for that – perhaps idealized – version of the world… of mankind. For so long, it seemed, the struggle – _his_ struggle – was _for_ humanity. Not against it.

But now?

Now the fear brought out by Magneto – and by Loki and aliens in general, by inhumans and the city-leveling Hulk and the incredible, destructive abilities of the Avengers – it had all led to what Xavier himself most feared. And this Lobe is but a single, perilous facet of the new anti-mutant world in which he finds himself.

“Captain Rogers seems committed to finding him,” he says after a long moment of reflection. “And I am glad for that.”

Tessa drops her hands from her hair and sits up a bit, giving him a curious look. Not for the first time, she’s struck by just how _unreadable_ the Professor is. It’s as though – being capable of reading people himself – he knows just how to mask any and every tell to keep those around him, even those closest to him, in the dark about what he’s truly thinking. “I know he said that Storm and Logan had been helping,” she says, her voice oddly tentative.

He merely nods. “Yes, they had been.”

She continues to study his face, all the while working to tug at his energy, eager to find _something_ beneath the soothing vibes he’d been putting out for her to soak up. Her eyes narrow as she strains to feel… more. But there is nothing more. He’s just too good at shutting her out. She lets out a frustrated huff and blinks her eyes closed as she pinches the bridge of her nose. The thunderous headache that had been overridden by more insistent feelings for the past hour or so slowly begins to thread its way back up from the base of her skull, collecting in a deep throb just behind her eyes.

“When you were a little girl, you used to get headaches,” he comments softly, watching as she grimaces from the steadily building pain. “Alex assumed you were straining too hard when using your powers. If I recall, he even suggested – rather harshly – that we limit your training.”

She glances up at him with a confused look. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well,” he says with a small chuckle, “I’m sure he didn’t tell you. What a reaction you would have had! Even as a little girl, you were so terribly stubborn.”

She leans back into the couch cushions and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t think I’ve changed much,” she mutters lightly. “Nothing pisses me off more than someone telling me to take it easy.” She gives him a bit of a side-eyed glare. “Well, almost nothing.”

Xavier offers a soft smile and nods thoughtfully. “And you still get those headaches,” he intones, laughing lightly when he receives nothing more than an angry pout in return. “I never believed that they were the result of you straining to use your powers.” She glances at him curiously. “They came on when you fought _not_ to use your powers. When you were asked to pull back in training. Or when you were afraid that you might hurt someone. Or now, when you’re uncertain of just what all you’re capable of doing.”

She sits upright and looks at him seriously, somber gaze boring into him. “I’ve never seen… colors before,” she mentions, voice nearly a whisper.

He nods. “Seeing energy is just the same as feeling as it – you’re simply starting to interpret that part of your world using another sense. If it’s distracting to you, blocking it out should be no different from blocking the other sensations.”

“Well,” she starts, single eyebrow rising, “I haven’t exactly been doing great at blocking the other stuff lately either.”

He frowns at her – “Yes, I noticed.” – and reaches out to drop an open palm on her knee. “If I recall, the times you struggled most with blocking out energies were those times when your mind was terribly preoccupied.”

Tessa nods, but says nothing. Instead she lets out a sigh, long and loud, as a deep fatigue starts to set in. She leans heavily back into the cushions once again, and a tepid silence falls around them. Then, all at once, her shoulders stiffen, brow furrows as she hauls herself upright. She cocks her head to the side, a sudden realization hitting her. “Why is it so… quiet?” she asks, her eyes bouncing around the room.

“Quiet?”

“I haven’t been able to block _anything_ lately. At the compound… I could… I was feeling everything. _Everyone_. And now…” She reaches out to try and find others in the building. It takes nothing at all to get a glimpse of Bucky and Steve – their signatures being as recognizable as her own. And Storm and Logan have been lingering in her periphery from the moment she arrived, their energy never abating. But there’s nothing else. _No one_ else. “Where are the children?” she asks quickly, her eyes widening with trepidation. “Where’s Bobby? And Kitty? And… everyone?”

He stares at her for a moment, a cloud passing over his irises. She struggles to gain a glimpse of the colors she saw before, the ones that had danced merrily around his aura. But all she can make out now are thin wisps of gray. “They’re gone,” he utters plainly, a finality to his voice.

“Gone? What do you mean, _gone_?”

“I’ve sent the children away – back home to their parents. The ones who have willing parents, anyway. The others are… safe.”

“Safe?” She jumps up from the couch and looms over him, her eyes wild. “What the hell does that mean? Were they not _safe_ here?”

He gives her an almost bittersweet sort of smile. “I think you know the answer to that.” She cocks her head at him, staring long and hard, mere silence falling from her open mouth. “Isn’t it _your_ company that’s trying to cure them all, Anna?” There’s a slight biting quality to his tone, a hint of disgust – or disappointment – she’s not sure which.

She swallows thickly and clamps her mouth shut, issuing out through gritted teeth, “But they won’t.”

He nods. “Perhaps not.”

“No,” she bites out. “They _won’t_. I won’t let them.”

He looks up at her, his gaze softening. He doesn’t have to read her mind to know what she’s saying. “Alright. You won’t let them,” he repeats dully. “But you cannot stop others.” He sees her every muscle tense and twitch, jaw tightening as she fights to keep from arguing a premise even she knows is true. “I can’t say that I’ve seen a time like this before,” he says gently before releasing a long, deep sigh. “I’ve decided to shut down the school. For now at least.”

Her face falls. “What?” tumbles from her lips in a sort of shocked gasp.

“We can’t remain hidden forever, my dear. Once those files were released by your agent friend, naming this school as a safe haven for enhanced children… well, we’ve had our fair share of investigators come through here over the past few years.”

“Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He lets out a small laugh. “Why would I?”

She gives him a stunned – _hurt_ – look that takes no more than a second for her to wipe from her face. Replacing it with a well-practiced expression of indifference, she states, no question to her voice, “You’re afraid of the registration act.”

His countenance doesn’t change, though she catches something shift in his eyes. “Those laws are coming. Sooner rather than later. And if we remain open, the state will have access to the names of every student, every teacher, every resident. Registration will only serve to brand each and every one of us as… lesser. A lesser citizen of this state, this nation. A lesser _person_. I can’t do that to these children. I won’t tell them that they must hide, but I will give them the chance to decide how to live their lives. Rather than have the state decide for them.” He gives her a grave look, punctuated by the deep, stoic frown she’d only seen on a handful of occasions throughout her life. “It’s time.”

She pulls in a shuddering breath, feels another wave of wrenching fatigue roll over her. “But… where will you go?”

He reaches out and lays a gentle hand on her knee. “I trust that you are safe with the Avengers. With Captain Rogers, and most assuredly with Sergeant Barnes.” He gives her a bright, genuine smile. “I am so glad that you found someone who makes you happy.”

Without realizing, she repeats the word under her breath as though testing it on her tongue. “ _Happy_.”

He cocks his head at her quizzically, but says nothing about the odd utterance. Instead, he tightens his grip on her knee before releasing his hold and giving her a firm pat. “I trust that you will be safe,” he says with a small wink. “Trust that we will be too.”

He pulls away from the sofa and wheels himself toward the door. “But…” she starts, not a clue where to go.

He turns back to her and sweeps his arm toward the hall, wide – though oddly emotionless – smile on his face. “Come now, dear. You should let your family take you home. You’ll need your rest after today.”

000

The ride back to the compound is utterly silent, a sad sort of tension thickening the air in the car. Tessa tells Steve and Bucky that Professor Xavier is shutting down the school and going into hiding – _But… what? Why? Where are they going?_ – but she refuses to say a single word beyond that, leaving them to speculate on their own.

Bucky isn’t surprised. He’d thought that Storm seemed… cagey. Like she wasn’t telling them something. Especially when Steve asked how much involvement they wanted to have – or how much they’d be willing to help – in tracking down Lobe. Neither of them refused to help, of course. But neither seemed particularly excited to either. And the wary looks she shared with Logan as they spoke, expressed far more than their sparse assurances ever could.

As much as he – like Steve – would’ve appreciated their help in the hunt for Lobe, he’s actually relieved to hear that they’ll be gone. Truth be told, working with the X-Men would only leave him feeling inadequate. And not just because they have, well, _super_ powers. It’s because they have a piece of Tessa that he can never possess himself, and nearly every interaction they have serves to remind him of that.

He turns and catches a glimpse of Tessa’s drawn face staring out the car window as they continue their drive – her eyes glassy, lips pressed tightly together in a staunch firm line – and despite his personal relief, he feels a deep fury begin to burn inside of him. How dare they hurt his girl.

He lets her continue to drift in wounded muteness once they arrive back at the compound, saying goodnight to Steve on both of their behalves as he escorts her home. But the moment they enter the apartment, he breaks the silence. “Hey,” he says simply, reaching out and lightly grabbing her arm as she begins to stalk off towards the bedroom. She pulls away, bristling at his touch, but turns to face him none the less. “You okay?”

Sincere concern is etched across his face, and it’s almost enough for her to tell him the truth, to spill out all that she’s feeling, to lay out for him just how _not okay_ she is. But the anger and resentment and… hurt won’t let her part her tightly pinched lips, won’t allow any words to rise through her closed-off throat. So she shrugs and turns away.

Bucky lets out a soft sigh, taking a step closer. He doesn’t take hold of her arm, too afraid she’ll pull away again. Instead he reaches out and grazes her skin with the back of his fingers, brushing against her just enough to let her know that he’s here.

“Go back to Steve’s,” she utters quickly, her tone clipped.

He pulls back his hand as though he’s been burned. “What?”

She turns then, and levels him with an indignant stare, eyes dark and stern. “You don’t get to be here now,” she tells him, words simmering with a soft sort of hostility.

“I don’t get to be here?” he questions, his own anger beginning to rise in his chest. “What the hell does that mean?”

Her face breaks, deep blush rising to her cheeks as she bites out, “You _left_ me,” in a bitter tone that she nearly chokes on. “You left.” She swings her hand out toward the door. “So go.”

“Baby,” he starts, pulling in a deep breath and readying himself to say… something.

But she’s not in the mood for _baby_. She’s not willing to accept whatever it is he has to offer, not when it begins with that equally loved and loathed term. “Get out,” she issues slowly from behind clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry.” His head dips… he can’t see her like this. He can’t look at her when she’s this… everything – angry and hurt and sad and disappointed. He can’t look her in the eye knowing that she feels all of that because of him.

“You left me,” she repeats, the final word coming out barely a whisper.

He shakes his head – “I didn’t leave you.” – and chances a glance at her pained face. “I just stayed at Steve’s for a few days while things were…” He pulls in a long, deep breath and repeats, “I’m sorry.”

But now she’s the one shaking her head, ratcheting her neck side to side to give herself some time to think, to try and control the emotion bubbling up within. Angry, frustrated tears are building behind her eyes, in the back of her throat. Her jaw clenches as she works to swallow them down. “You think I don’t know?” she finally manages, voice as steady as it’s gonna get. “You think I don’t know that… all of that… was hard on you?”

“No, I – ”

“It was hard on _me_!” she shouts “I… I…” Her breath starts to come in ragged gasps and without thinking, he reaches for her, tries to pull her into his arms. “No!” she screams, wrenching herself away, wrapping her arms protectively, defensively, around her middle.

He stands, stunned for a long moment before saying the only thing he can think to say. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” she snarls at him. “You left me.”

“Stop saying that,” he demands, irritation lacing his words. He takes two large strides back, unconsciously making the effort to give her space. Moving back to ensure that his own anger doesn’t cause him to overstep. “I didn’t _leave_ you. I just…”

“Go,” she says again, tone sharp and strong despite the meek way she curls in on herself.

His brows knit tightly together and he blows a short, annoyed breath out of his nose. “No.”

“Get _out_!” she screams, unfurling her arms from around herself and flinging them almost maniacally.

He takes another step back. Then another. He’s almost at the door when he says, a petulant lilt to his voice, “I don’t want to.”

In one swift motion, she grabs a half-full coffee mug from the breakfast bar and hurls it at his head, fully expecting him to dodge it. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t budge. There’s a dull _thwack_ that sounds when the mug collides with his forehead – a thick crack and shatter as it then falls to the floor and breaks into pieces.

For a long moment, the two just stare wide eyed at each other, each frozen in a different form of shock. Slowly, blood begins to trickle down Bucky’s forehead. He breaks the stare by rapidly trying to blink away the thick, red liquid seeping into his eye. He reaches up and gingerly dabs at the inch-long cut above his brow, only just now seeming to realize that… “You hit me.”

She continues to stare, gaping mouth ticking a couple times before words finally manage to come out in a dazed near whisper. “I thought you’d move.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t. I didn’t think you’d throw a damn coffee cup at my head.” He palms his forehead, working to pinch his split skin together with the heel of his hand as he steps into the kitchen to grab a towel. “I’m bleeding,” he mutters as he pulls his hand away and watches droplets of blood ping off the stainless steel sink.

“You’ll heal,” she states plainly, slowly pushing past him to grab some ice from the freezer.

“I’ll heal?” he asks incredulously.

She steps in front of him and pulls his hand away from his head, takes the towel and wraps it around a thick ice pack before pressing it – not particularly gently – back to the wound. “It’s what you do, right?” she snipes, avoiding eye contact when he hisses from the pain. “You heal.”

“You hit me,” he says again, disbelieving note to his voice. “What the hell…?”

She blows past him without a word, hurrying from the kitchen. He stands utterly still, absolute shock coursing through him.

Part of him wants to laugh. She threw a coffee mug at him! And he just stood there like an idiot and let it hit him. Right in the head. He saw her grab it, saw her fling it, saw the cold, stale coffee splash about as the cup made a beeline for him. He knew it was coming. And yet there was something so ridiculous about the whole thing, so unbelievable, that he almost thought it wasn’t really happening. The fraction of a second he needed to realize that it was real was, apparently, just a fraction of a second too long to avoid a mug to the face.

Tessa whips back into the room with the first aid kit and steps in front of him. Again, she pulls the towel away from his forehead to look at the wound. Again, she avoids any sort or eye contact. “You’re not even going to apologize?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up just the smallest bit.

She picks up some gauze and gently pats at the cut, grabs his empty hand and – without words – directs him to hold the gauze in place. “This might sting,” she tells him as she pours something onto another pad and presses it to the wound.

“I should call the police,” he states plainly, finally managing to get her to look at him. She gives him a skeptical stare and rolls her eyes. “I should press charges,” he says, his steady voice holding more than a hint of amusement.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” She pulls the gauze away and takes a minute to carefully close the cut, sealing it together with butterfly tape from the kit. She takes the bloody gauze from his right hand and the bloody towel from his left, and she turns away from him, slowly packing up the kit and repackaging the ice into a clean towel. “You deserved it,” she mutters under her breath.

He waits to respond until she faces him again, taking hold of her wrist as she raises the ice to his brow. “Maybe,” he says, his deep voice pulling her gaze to his. “But you could still say you’re sorry.”

There’s a soft glean to his light blue eyes, an almost jovial sparkle. He thinks this is funny. He hurt her. He hurt her so bad that she hurt him, made him bleed. And he thinks it’s _funny_.

She tugs her wrist from his grip, shoving the ice pack into his metal hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, clearing her throat sternly. She spins away, slams the lid down on the kit, and makes a move to go return it to the bathroom.

“Wait,” he nearly shouts, grasping at her arm as she moves past. He follows her several steps, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over him as he nears the doorway. “Just… wait.” He drops her arm and takes hold of the counter to steady himself. He blinks a few times to dispel the slight woozy feeling and when he meets her eyes again, he sees that they’re filled with concern and… guilt. “You’re right,” he breathes out. “I left.” He slowly steps away from the counter, making sure he’s steady on his feet before moving closer to her. “But I didn’t _leave_. I shouldn’t have left… not like that. I shouldn’t have yelled like I did, and… I shouldn’t have left you to deal with that all on your own.” He waits a moment before saying anything else, takes another reluctant step forward, watching her carefully for any sign of recoil.

She doesn’t step away. And when his fingers reach out and lightly brush her hand, she doesn’t pull away either. She looks down, her now-bleary eyes trained on his flesh fingers as he slowly wraps them around her hand. “Please don’t leave me,” she breathes out, the words falling from her lips in a soft, desperate whisper. Her eyes close, lids pinching tightly shut.

“I won’t,” he tells her, voice deep and sincere.

She swallows thickly, breath shuddering as she issues out, “Everyone leaves.”

He shakes his head dolefully, stepping closer still so that they’re barely an inch apart. He twines his fingers with hers and leans into her. She can feel his breath on her neck as he says, “Not me. Not ever.”

And just like that, something inside of her breaks. Her breath hitches, a torrent of tears beginning to spill from her eyes. She lets out an awful sound – a small whimper that carries for a long moment before turning into a deep, mournful sob. She hears the pathetic cry and – with an oddly disaffected air – internally chides herself for letting it loose. She’s angry, not sad. This is no time for tears, no time for weakness.

Bucky pulls away from her just the slightest bit, straightening up to look down at her crumpled countenance. His forehead crinkles in confusion and concern, causing the cut to seep blood anew. But he doesn’t pay any heed to the sting above his eyebrow. “Oh, baby,” he mutters absently as he brings both hands up to cradle her face. She won’t look at him, won’t open her already swollen eyes even the slightest bit. “Tessa?” he questions, tone deepening.

She doesn’t respond, simply shaking her head instead. No words leave her open mouth, just gasping breaths and heaving sobs, both of which cause her body to begin to tremble and jolt. She pulls out of his grip and turns away, folding in on herself and slowly crumbling to the floor, right there in the middle of their hallway.

He drops to his knees beside her and curls around her, over the top of her, issuing small utterances of, “Shh, shh, baby. It’s okay,” over and over again. He trails his metal fingers up and down the length of her spine, knowing how that touch so often soothes her. But that’s when she’s just a bit upset. Or perhaps after a nightmare. He’s never seen her like this. Never known her to just collapse into heart-wrenching sobs seemingly out of the blue. Never seen her fall into a state of such despair that she can’t even speak. Never experienced her being so far gone that she would actually pull away from him, turn her back on him.

She curls even further into herself, pulling into a tight ball on the floor. She wraps her arms around her legs, tugging her knees to her chest, and does her best to tuck her face away so that he can’t see. The tears won’t stop. The short, clipped, ragged breaths won’t settle. The deep, painful ache in her gut won’t abate.

He _had_ left her.

Just like the parents she never even knew had left her. Then her grandfather. Then Alex. Then John. Then Scott. Then Jean.

Cal had left her. So many times… this last one for good.

Anna had left her.

Now all that remained of her family had left her as well.

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs to her, as though he can hear her thoughts. “I’m here.”

But it’s not enough. Because others had said it too.

_I’d never leave behind my buttercup_ , her grandfather assured her just before hoisting her into his big red truck. So few memories of him remain, but that one is clear – the warmth of the sun beating down on her dark hair as she ran over to him, begging to go along to wherever it was he was off to.

_Annie_ , Scott comforted, trailing light fingers along her back, just like Bucky’s doing now. _Annie_ , he said as he held so close, so tight. _I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. You’re mine for life, kid._

_He’s gonna be fine_ , Steve had told her, as she hovered over Bucky’s broken body on a day not that long ago. _I promise. He would never leave you._

They all say they’ll never leave. So how is it that she always ends up so alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a sec to thank everyone who's reviewed - and maybe beg a bit for more. I really do love to hear what you all think about the story and the characters... what you're dying to see more of, what you hope happens next, or where you think things might be going. So feel free to drop me a line. And as always, thanks for reading!


	26. A Heavy Fog

She refuses to get out of bed the next morning, telling Bucky simply, “I’m tired,” when he gently prods her, concern covering his face. There’s something about seeing that worry that lights a bitter fire in her gut, causing her to bite out, “I haven’t slept in days… not that you’d know.”

She rolls over not long after he leaves and calls in sick to work. Then she drifts back into a fitful sleep that, somehow, morphs into a slumber so deep she doesn’t wake for hours. It isn’t until she feels Bucky tug at her ankle, then slowly shake her at the hip, that she stirs once more.

“Baby,” he utters softly, carefully. “Wake up, doll. It’s almost four.” She shifts beneath the covers and emits a low growl. “Come on, Tess,” he says, voice deeper, more commanding. “You gotta get up.”

But there’s something weighting her limbs, something preventing her from lifting her head off the pillow. There’s a heaviness to her body that makes the air around her seem thick as honey and impossible to move through. And there’s an exhausted fog rippling through her mind, wrapping her in a sluggish, weary daze.

Maybe it’s because she hadn’t slept much during Cal’s little visit. And seeing him, talking to him, pulling him close – and then pushing, pushing, pushing him away – sucked her energy clean.

Maybe it’s because she knows she has to get back to Chin and Vargas about working on isolating MGH… and she also knows that she simply _can’t_ do that. And even just thinking about fighting that unwinnable battle is so fucking exhausting.

Maybe it’s because she recognizes that every minute she’s at work – whether she’s talking to him or not – she’s lying to Tony. And to Pepper. And to her entire staff.

Maybe it’s because she knows that Lobe is out there – somewhere – maybe looking for her, definitely looking for mutant subjects. And she has no clue how to stop him.

Maybe it’s because the entire world is turning on her and her family – blaming them, hating them, thinking of them as less than human – just because of their genetics. And there’s likely nothing she can say or do to change their minds.

Maybe it’s because this vehemence, this _threat_ drove her family away, caused them to flee… to leave her behind. And she’s certain they don’t want her to follow.

Maybe it’s because – as exhausting as it’s been for the last ten plus years – hiding who she really is becoming less of a choice and more of a necessity. And knowing that and abiding by that – especially now that she knows who she is once again, and what she’s capable of, and how she could use her powers to do _so much_ good – makes her feel like a selfish, spineless asshole.

Maybe it’s because she can feel the worry and guilt and fear bleeding off of Bucky as he looms cautiously over her. She’s making him hurt – again – and nothing makes her hate herself more than that.

Whatever the reason, she simply _cannot_ bring herself to climb out of bed.

“Romanov and the team got back an hour ago,” he says softly, the mattress dipping as he sits down beside her. “Steve thinks you should be at the debrief too.”

“No,” she mutters, her face buried in the pillow.

He stares down at her for a long moment, reaches out to run his fingers along her back but – for some inexplicable reason – thinks twice about it and pulls his hand away. “Okay,” he says simply, rising from the bed. “I’ll let ‘em know you’re not up for it.”

He brings her some soup before he goes. It’s not Steve’s mom’s cure-all chicken soup. But it probably wouldn’t matter if it was. She swallows it down for him – just to wipe away some of that pained energy he can’t help but emit in her presence – but she tastes nothing.

000

By the time Bucky makes it to the conference room, the gang’s all there – everyone’s eyes veering to look his way as he breezes in and steps over to lean against the far wall. Steve glances up at him from his seat at the head of the table, a question in his gaze. Bucky folds his arms tightly across his chest and gives a swift shake of his head in response.

“Okay,” the Captain breathes out, turning back to the group in front of him. Natasha, Atkinson, and Robson sit to his left, at the ready to discuss their findings on the _skull guy_ , as they’d been calling him. To his right is Sam – who’s going to lay out their report on the small base found in Brazil – and Vision – who’s spent the last 24 hours combing through files, using little more than his _brain_ , on anything related to Lobe, Dr. Aaron Scofield, and the recently deceased Michael Calvin. “Let’s get started.”

They begin with _skull guy_ – a biomechanical engineer from Toronto named Bernard Kramer. “Not too many friends outside of work,” Natasha tells the crew. “Not too many friends _inside_ of work either. But he had talked to a certain female colleague about an exciting freelance position he took up that might just turn into something full time. Kramer was fairly new at his firm, and low on the totem pole.”

She glances over at Robson and he pulls himself upright, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “This colleague,” he begins, easily interpreting Natasha’s silent directive for him to take over. “She said she thought Kramer was full of shit… that he was making up the opportunity to try and gain leverage at work and get into some high-profile projects.” He offers a tight shrug. “Because of that, she didn’t really pay much attention to what he said… only really remembered that he was going to Brazil every six weeks or so – ”

“Which lines up with flight records,” Atkinson interjects.

“And that it had something to do with – according to him – tissue engineering,” he finishes.

Steve’s brow wrinkles. “What’s that?”

Robson looks over to Romanov, clearly expecting her to take point. But she just gives him a small nod instead. “Basically,” he starts, turning back to Steve, “it’s using human cells along with other… materials to either improve existing biological tissue or to replace it with something _better_.”

“Like creating an artificial heart?” he asks, brow perking as he harkens back to an article he read not so long ago.

Robson nods. “Sure. Could be. But…”

“Didn’t look like they were making artificial hearts in that lab we found,” Sam mentions casually.

Natasha leans forward. “Yeah. Tell us about that. You think it’s where San Paulo and the others went?”

He pulls in a long, deep breath. “It’d be a pretty big coincidence if there was another underground lab somewhere in Brazil that got burned out around the time of the UN attack.” He shakes his head a bit, face curling in thought. “There wasn’t much left of the place. Some smashed computers, but no hard drives – nothing salvageable. No other files or documents. And the lab portion of the base was empty.”

“So you really don’t know what they were doing there,” Robson surmises.

Sam glances over at him. “Nope. But it was a pretty small facility.”

“Was any equipment left behind?” Natasha asks. “We could get Tessa to take a look, see if she knows what it might’ve been used for.”

Sam shoots a quick sidelong glance over to Steve, who stiffens and frowns at the mention of Tessa’s name. Silence permeates the room as he looks over to Bucky, who’s still standing staunchly still, the slightest cinching of his shoulders catching Steve’s eye.

“What?” Natasha bites out, sensing the dramatic shift in tension.

Sam clears his throat. “There wasn’t much left behind. We can have her take a look through the report. But I doubt…”

“We found Cal there,” Steve interrupts, his sudden admission causing Nat’s eyes to blow wide. He ducks his head and swallows thickly. “Just the one body. Burned beyond recognition. But… we figured out it was him. Still waiting on the official results. But…”

“And Tessa knows?” Her voice is soft, concern lacing the words. It’s a tone that neither Robson nor Atkinson has ever heard come from their superior before, and that foreign quality is enough to put them both on edge.

“I’m sorry,” Atkinson interrupts. “Who’s Tessa?”

The Avengers all turn to look at her, each of them wearing a similar expression of surprise as though they’d all forgotten that she – and the other support team member to her left – were in the room. “Dr. Sullivan,” Steve replies simply before turning back to Natasha. “And, yeah, she knows.”

Atkinson’s brows knit together in confusion. She glances across the room at Bucky, notes the deep frown on his face, the way his stormy eyes veer off towards nothing. Is this the _personal_ thing he had to stay back to attend to? “How…” she starts, inadvertently speaking over the top of Sam, who’s busy laying out the specifics of what they _did_ manage to salvage from the base. “Isn’t Dr. Sullivan… how is she involved?”

Bucky’s eyes fly up to meet hers, his glare penetrating. “She’s not,” he bites out with more venom than she’s ever heard from him. There’s a dangerous quality, not just in his tone, but in his overall demeanor, in the way he stands – feet firmly planted, hands tightly fisted, jaw creakily grinding. And it’s enough to cause her breath to catch.

“Dr. Sullivan has experience in many different research fields,” Steve explains calmly, drawing Atkinson’s attention back to him. “Including the genetics of mutants. So she might be familiar with certain… practices.”

“And people?” Robson inquires blithely. “You made it sound like she knows the guy who burned up in the base…”

“Maybe,” he issues out quickly before twisting in his seat to look at Vision. “What do you have for us?” he asks hurriedly, eager to move on lest any additional questions arise.

“Ah, yes,” the android begins, tone almost cheerful as though utterly oblivious to the tension in the room. “Well, as requested, I gathered what I believe to be pertinent data on the individuals in question.”

“Sorry,” Natasha interrupts, her tone brokering zero hint of actual apology. “Which individuals?”

Vision looks over at her and replies, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Mr. Calvin, Dr. Scofield, and the man called Lobe.”

For the second time inside of twenty minutes, her eyes flash surprise and grow wide. She turns to Steve. “You think this was Lobe? I mean…”

He nods, his eyes flickering over towards the two soldiers by her side. “I _know_ it was him. But not everyone in the room has the security clearance to hear how I know.”

Robson leans over to Atkinson and whispers sarcastically in her ear, “I think he might be talking about us.”

She ignores the amused snicker he lets out, turning to her Captain with a fire in her eyes. “Do we have a high enough clearance to at least know who _Lobe_ is?”

Steve shrugs. “Debatable,” he mutters as he works to decide whether it’d be better to kick them out now or see what they may have to offer the investigation. He lets out a long sigh and relents. “We had a run in with Lobe this time last year. We stumbled on an old Hydra base that had been ransacked. He was the culprit… looking for files detailing decades-old tests and experiments done mostly on mutants. We investigated further and found that Lobe was starting up an organization designed to harvest powers from mutants and somehow give them to _normal_ humans.”

“Jesus,” Robson mutters. “Is that possible?”

“We weren’t sure then… but we now believe that San Paulo was one of his experiments – a human he managed to enhance using… well, we’re not entirely sure what.” He turns back to Vision. “Or how.”

The android leans casually back in his chair. “From what I have gathered – and do note, Captain, this is all speculation on my part. Though it is a data-driven hypothesis that I have determined to have a high statistical probability of being accurate. My _hypothesis_ is that Dr. Scofield discovered a way to isolate the Mutant Growth Hormone that was produced by the M-gene once exposed to certain levels of radiation. This, of course, was well after Dr. Sullivan studied the M-gene with him in Minsk.”

Steve clears his throat harshly, a quick warning to _not_ mention Tessa’s name for the time being. It’s a dictate that the rather intuitive robot quickly recognizes.

“Yes, of course,” he mutters before forging on. “As I said, I believe that Dr. Scofield did manage to isolate the hormone, and from there was able to dose study participants with it.” He looks up at Steve. “It’s my understanding that few of these participants survived?” Steve nods. “I’m not a geneticist, of course,” he says, giving the Captain an almost conspiratorial look. “ But it would stand to reason that the hormone would be more stable if harvested from its natural genetic forbearer, a functional X-gene. It’s possible that the MGH with which the subjects were treated simply had… unforeseen consequences.”

“Whatever the reason, San Paulo must’ve realized he wasn’t going to last much longer,” Steve decides. “He agreed to do the attack because Lobe promised to pay his family.”

“How do you know that?” Natasha asks.

He shoots her a quick, warning glare… all she needs to understand that this isn’t something he can share with everyone in the room.

Atkinson clears her throat and waits for the Captain to turn to her. “He may not have been the only surviving subject. There was a woman with him. Every time they went out, to the base you found, I guess… even the last time he was seen in Bonito, that same woman was with him. No one mentioned seeing her since then… but she _could_ still be out there.”

“Did we get a description?”

She nods. “Average height. Caucasian. Dark blond or light brown hair… long. Blue eyes and a nice smile.” She shrugs. “No one gave us anything more in-depth. I think we all got the impression they did their best to ignore tourists and outsiders.”

“Captain,” Vision’s voice breaks in. “If I may?” Steve nods for him to go on. “It is possible that, after realizing the MGH they had was corrupted, Lobe’s team began working on alternate ways to imbue mutant powers.”

“Such as?”

“Tissue engineering. If you recall, from the transcript of Dr. – ” he stops short of saying Tessa’s name, awkwardly catching himself mid-phrase. “The transcript from the meeting with Mr. Calvin… he did say that Lobe was looking into the possibility of harvesting tissues from mutants and implanting them into humans in the hopes of sparking genetic adhesion.”

“Harvesting tissues,” Robson chimes, a disgusted look on his face. “ _Man_ …”

“Yes, indeed. It would be terribly invasive if not fatal for the mutant subject. But perhaps – with the help of Dr. Kramer – the tissue would be able to take root in the human host, spread the X-gene throughout and produce MGH… _naturally_. If this woman is still alive, a possible explanation could be that she received this treatment instead.”

“Maybe,” Steve says with a slow, assessing nod. “Or maybe she just got lucky… and her luck’s about to run out.”

000

When Bucky comes back into their bedroom that evening – far too early for him to be going to bed – Tessa only barely registers the creaking of the door. He slowly shucks his socks and jeans and climbs under the covers with her. She rolls over and into him, just barely awake as he wraps himself around her, holding her close. He slowly works his fingers through her messy hair, softly apologizing every now and then when they snag on a particularly gnarly knot.

She barely notices, and she doesn’t say a word.

“I called your new assistant a little while ago,” he says after what feels like an hour of silence. “Told her you wouldn’t be in tomorrow either.” His tone is easy, cadence calm, but her stomach turns every time she gets a hit of his anxious energy.

“Okay,” she mutters blankly, her voice hoarse from disuse.

He lets out a deep sigh, his hand stilling on her head mid stroke. “You’re kind of scaring me, doll,” he utters. When she says nothing, he pulls in a long breath and lays a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “Will you tell me what I can do?” he asks, voice so hesitant it makes her cringe.

She wiggles closer to him and gingerly wraps her arms around his middle, offering him what little reassurance she can muster. But she says nothing. What is there to say? What _can_ he do? Can he bring back everyone who’s gone? Can he change the trajectory of the world? Can he take her back in time to when just being in his arms was enough to make her feel safe and content?

“I love you,” he murmurs into her hair as he tugs her closer. “If that’s all I can do, I’ll just keep doing that.”


	27. Something is Wrong

Bucky’s jaw ticks to the side, his tongue slowly moving along the ridges of his teeth as he stares Sam down. It takes a moment for his lips to part, an almost bitter scoff sounding before he asks, in a voice far more timid than his intimidating stance conveys, “What do I do?”

Sam slowly shakes his head and stares at the dejected man in front of him. His gaze flicks briefly to his right, to the closed door to Bucky’s apartment. He lets out a deep sigh and pushes off of the hallway wall. “Just be there, man.”

“I _am_ there,” he growls, countenance darkening despite the light, pained sheen building over his eyes.

“I know,” he concedes with a nod.

Bucky drops his head back into the doorjamb, knocking his skull against the hard wood a few times before emitting a frustrated sigh. “I just… I don’t know what to do. It kills me to see her like this.”

Sam nods again, brows rising in agreement. “I know, man. I know.”

“But I can’t even…” He stops short, lips pressing tightly together as he thinks about what she said to him not more than an hour ago, when he sat by her side on the edge of the bed she’s refused to leave for days and expressed his growing concern.

_Don’t you know that I feel everything you feel? Don’t you know that it just makes it all that much worse? You being here… like that… it isn’t fair._

Bucky’s face hardens and twists, his lip curling just the slightest bit in – is it anger? Frustration? A helpless sort of rage? He issues one long breath out through flared nostrils before shaking his head and saying, “I can’t… _feel_ around her. I can’t be worried or sad or scared because she’ll feel it too. And I…” he unfurls his arms and throws his hands feebly up into the air. “I don’t know how _not_ to feel those things.” He lets out a long, harsh sigh, brows raised high as he mutters, “One thing I’ll say for the Soldier… Tessa’d be fine if he were in the room with her right now.”

“Really?” Sam asks, low tone biting with incredulity. “You didn’t _feel_ anything as the Winter Soldier? Or were you just damn good at keeping it all stuffed down?” Bucky shoots him a penetrating glare, which Sam has no choice but to snicker at. “She doesn’t mean to hurt you,” he goes on, voice deep and sincere – the therapist tone. “But just because she’s going through something of her own doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to feel what you feel.”

He turns away, glowering down at the hardwood flood. “She feels bad, I feel bad. She feels me feeling bad…” He shrugs. “She feels worse. It fucking sucks.”

Sam releases a small chuckle and reaches out to clap Bucky on the shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.

He huffs out a shallow breath. “This time last year… That’s when it all started.” His expression shifts into a mask of rage, of disgust, his teeth gritted as he bites out, “That bastard, Lobe… everything that she went through because of him. That’s what started all of this. And now he’s… back.” He shakes his head again as though trying to clear the anger-laced thoughts from his mind. “Before he came along, she was happy. _We_ were happy. And I… I just…”

“Miss her,” he finishes.

Bucky nods somberly. “Yeah.”

“But,” Sam pauses briefly as he tries to find the right words. “You know… I’m not so sure this all started with the Lobe mission.” Bucky cocks his head at him, his expression equal parts curious and threatening. Sam counters with a rather serious expression of his own. “Think about it, man. Think about who she is… _how_ she is. She’s got some really unhealthy habits, and she’s had them for a long time. Maybe the stuff with Lobe… then _dying_ , finding out her life’s a lie, dealing with all this anti-mutant crap… maybe that’s what finally got her here. But… just don’t be looking at things through rose-tinted glasses. That’s all I’m saying. She’s been struggling for a while now – I’d argue as long as we’ve known her, probably a lot longer than that.” His brows shoot up as he suddenly recalls the reason given by the X-Men for building up the wall in Tessa’s mind to begin with. “ _Definitely_ a lot longer than that.”

A heady stillness creeps into Bucky’s core as Sam’s words reverberate through his mind. He notes the thick silence in the hallway and looks over at the door to their apartment. It’s just the slightest bit ajar, just as he had left it when walking Sam out a few minutes prior. He nudges it open with his foot – just a bit – and leans towards the opening, peering in at the two women inside. He perks his ears – attuning the super-soldier hearing so that he can make out their hushed conversation.

“It’s understandable, you know,” Nat muses as she slowly scoots closer to Tessa’s curled-up form on the sofa. “Everything that’s happened over the last few weeks… few months…” She blows out a long, slow breath. “The past year, really. I’d think you were crazy if you weren’t a little depressed by now.”

“I’m not depressed,” she mumbles plainly.

“Then I think you’re crazy.” There’s a long, strained pause before Natasha speaks again. “You know… Just after SHIELD fell… You saw it in me.” Tessa says nothing, her expression unchanging. “I was… lost. And unfocused. Maybe a little scared.” She lets out the smallest sardonic laugh. “And I thought you were either crazy or a real bitch for suggesting I take those anti-depressants. Half the reason I filled the prescription was so I could prove you wrong.”

“And _I_ was the bitch,” she mutters absently.

“No, actually, you were right.” She reaches out takes hold of Tessa’s hand, twines their fingers together as she says, “I didn’t think that what I was feeling was… a problem. But if it wasn’t, how did that medication help like it did?”

“Actually,” Tessa announces with authority, pulling in a deep breath and steeling her voice, “there’s very little statistically significant evidence to suggest that SSRIs are effective in the treatment of depression.”

Nat stills for a moment, quirking her head curiously. “Then why the hell did you prescribe them to me?” Tessa just shrugs, shoulders dropping once again. “Well, _somehow_ it helped.”

“I don’t need any help.”

Natasha scoffs loudly, the sound utterly indelicate and quite unlike the normally contained woman. “Right. Sure. Story of your life.” She pauses briefly, carefully planning out her next words. “You know, you have helped every single one of us,” she says, her voice calm and confident. “At different times, you have picked us up and pieced us back together. You’ve treated us, stitched us up, vaccinated us, medicated us, pulled bullets and shrapnel out of us. You’ve helped us in the field – had our backs, saved our asses. You’ve helped us – helped _me_ – here, at home, just by… being here. And being _you_.” She narrows her eyes at her friend, an odd sort vitriol billowing inside of her as she utters, “How _dare_ you keep us from helping you.”

Tessa blinks her eyes slowly, fighting the urge to simply go back to bed… to get up and walk away from her friend – away from everything. “Natasha,” she mutters simply with a sigh.

Nat pulls herself upright and glares down at her. “You have every right to be upset. You have every reason to be depressed.”

“I’m not – ” she tries, but is quickly bowled over as Natasha continues on.

“But… the way I see it,” she starts, stubborn eyebrow raised. “You have three choices right now. You can continue to curl up in bed until you fade away into nothing, which – let’s be real – I’m not gonna let you do. You can somehow _magically_ pull yourself together all on your own, which I don’t really see happening. Or… you can let us help you.”

Natasha reaches out and pushes a chunk of dark hair back behind Tessa’s ear and stares at her patiently, waiting for a response. “Us?” is all she gets, a question uttered in a low, meek voice.

“Us,” she repeats. She throws a quick glance over her shoulder at the slightly open door. They both know that Bucky and Sam are still lingering there, holed up in the hallway, trying to give them some privacy. “All of us. We’re all here to help you.”

Tessa says nothing in reply, offers no promises nor even acknowledgement of her friend’s words. Instead, she rises – achingly slowly – from the couch, pulling the thick quilt she’d brought with her from the bed tightly around her shoulders, and she slumps back toward the bedroom without a word.

Natasha stiffens on the couch, pulling in a deep, sorrowful breath as she watches the brunette slink away. Her ears perk at the soft creak of the door behind her, the thick footsteps on the hardwood signaling the reentry of Bucky and Sam. She turns slowly to face them, but doesn’t wait for either to speak, instead shaking her head solemnly and announcing, “I’ll talk to Bruce. See if he can prescribe her something.”

Sam nods appreciatively – “I think that’s a good idea.” – and cocks his head towards Bucky. “If she agrees to it, I think some medication could really help her out right now. I know it helped me.”

Bucky’s eyes shift lazily between the two. “Has _everyone_ been on anti-depressants?”

Nat shrugs. “Pretty much.” She pats him harshly on the shoulder before sidestepping him on the way to the front door. “Welcome to the 21st century, Sarge. Everyone’s depressed and no one has the time to actually deal with it.”

000

She’s crying. That’s what wakes him. It’s not the low, distressed cry of someone trapped in a bad dream, nor the sharp, breathy cry of someone in physical pain. It’s a deep, hiccupping sob, muted and muffled by the mostly closed bathroom door. He rolls over to look at the burning numbers on the clock – 2:44 – and he pulls himself upright with a slight groan before shuffling to the ensuite.

He raps lightly on the door with a metal knuckle, just to avoid startling her. But it’s a pointless gesture. The moment he nudges the door open and steps slowly into the bathroom, he can plainly see that she’s far too caught up in her own deep, unabating despair to even notice him.

Bucky pulls in a low, deep breath as he watches her body tremble and jolt as she sits atop the closed toilet weeping. Her hunched shoulders shake, tangled hair falling in thick curtains on either side of her face. Behind the dark waves, her hands work to conceal her pain, fingertips pressing into her swollen eyes, palms covering her open mouth, dulling the sound of her breathy moans.

He drops down to his knees in front of her and gently lays his hands atop hers, tries to peel them away, to lighten their grasp so that he can see her face… look into her eyes. But she clamps down harder, a bellowing sob creeping out of her covered mouth as she whips her head back and forth. He says nothing, just pries her fingers away and wraps them up inside of his tight fists so he can bring her hands down into her lap.

Her breath catches as she works to keep from hyperventilating. Her eyes fall down to her lap to see their hands joined together, his flesh-and-bone knuckles white with the effort of holding tightly to her. The sight causes her gut to twist, a sudden wave of nausea rolling over her. “I…” she sputters, clearly unable to put words together. “I… I…” she holds back another deep sob, choking on it before falling into a quick coughing fit.

Bucky keeps his metal hand atop her still-trembling fingers as his right moves to her back, patting firmly a few times to help her through the fit before falling into a slow, steady caress between her shoulder blades. She drops her head to his shoulder, tears immediately leaking through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He offers a soft _shhh_ , but nothing more.

For a brief moment, he thinks that she might be settling, the sobs dying into a steady but silent torrent of tears as she moves closer to him and drapes her arms around him. But the moment he hugs her back, wrapping his own arms around her slight frame to pull her close, she lets loose with an awful, stuttering cry – a sound somewhere between a despairing moan and a terrified shriek. She clutches at him, moving her arms up to wrap desperately around his neck as her legs tightly wind around his middle. He feels her ankles lock in place behind his low back. He feels her chest shudder against his as she rasps and sputters. He feels tears and saliva and hot breath drench the skin at the crook of his neck. He feels her heart breaking inside of her, and his own quickly following suit.

He lifts her easily into his arms. She’s gripping him so tight – wound around him like some kind of spider monkey – that he doesn’t even really have to hold onto her at all. But he does, of course, supporting her bottom with the bionic arm while his right pulls her close, wide palm pressed into her back. He carries her from the bathroom, pausing at the foot of her bed. _No_ , he thinks. _Too much time spent there already. She needs air._ And he slowly glides through the apartment, over to the balcony where he flips the lock on the door and slides it open.

A sudden cool breeze blows past them, wraps around their pressed together bodies. He pulls in a deep, cleansing breath as he steps over to the oversized, heavily cushioned Adirondack chair in the corner of the balcony. He lowers himself down, reaching around to part her ankles so that her feet won’t get smashed when he sits. And she obliges, letting her legs simply fall to either side of him when he settles in.

She continues to cry into him, her face dropping to his chest. But the thick rustle of leaves in the wind and the blooming echoes of the crickets and the frogs from the woods below quickly drown out her hitching breaths and small, tight moans. His fingers twine in her hair, gathering up the mass of sweaty curls and holding it to the base of her neck so the heady breeze doesn’t blow it into their faces. It isn’t long – several minutes at most – before her body stops it’s wracking and the tears fade almost entirely away, leaving only soft shudders from her chest as her breathing begins to return to normal.

She lifts her head and pivots it to the side, gazes out at the moonlit tops of the trees to her right, watching as the full spring foliage shivers in the cool late-night breeze. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks in a voice so small it’s almost carried away on the wind.

“Nothing,” he issues out hurriedly, giving her a sharp squeeze before pulling back and looking deeply at her. She reluctantly turns her gaze on him, a question buried in her bleary eyes. “You’re hurting,” he tells her, voice thick with emotion. “And that makes sense. Right now… it makes perfect sense.”

“Because they left me?” she asks, tears welling once more.

He reaches up to pet away the hair from her temple and tuck it behind her ear. Nodding, he says, “Because of everything, baby.”

And it’s true, isn’t it? It’s true that she _should_ hurt right now. Her family is gone. Work is hell. She feels hated by the world. Her life – much of it a lie – has only recently gotten cobbled back together. _A lie_. Her memories were a lie. Her life for the past decade was a lie. She’s now living a lie.

Her eyes cloud and drift away from his as she breathes out, “I’m a liar.”

His brows pull together, confusion lacing his tone as he asks simply, “What?”

She sits upright, still straddling his lap, and looks down at him. “I lied to you – to Steve, to _everyone_ – and I didn’t even know it.”

“No, baby,” he soothes, before being quickly interrupted.

“I never told my family about you – about anything. I pushed them away… and now they’re gone forever.”

“Not forever.”

“I’m lying to everyone at work… to Tony,” she utters, her voice breaking at the end. “And… and… I lie about who I am. Everyday.”

He reaches up and takes hold of her face, cupping her cheeks in his palms. “You do what you have to do to _survive_.”

She sniffles and averts her eyes before dropping her forehead back to his shoulder. “I lie. And I… I didn’t help… anyone. I just… I…”

He tugs her close, feeling the tremble in her chin as her face presses to his chest. “You help so many people, baby. Even the big lie you’re carrying around with you right now… that’s to help other mutants.”

She snuffles into him, her voice breaking again as she asks, “Am I a bad person?”

“No,” he replies without an ounce of hesitation.

“Then why didn’t they want me? Why didn’t they take me with them?”

“The X-Men?” She nods into him. “Baby, I’d never let them take you away from me.” She pulls back and gives him a curious look. “You think they didn’t know that?” he asks her, perceptive brow raised.

She shrugs. “Professor X said that he trusted you… to keep me safe.”

He lays a warm palm on the crown of her head and gives her a small, but achingly genuine smile. “Always.”

She nods slowly, letting him pull her back down to rest in the crook of his neck. “I just feel…” Her voice fades off into nothing, but he doesn’t say a word, instead waiting for her continue. “Like I _failed_ them,” she says finally. “I wasn’t there when they needed me. I’m not there now. And… I don’t know how to help. I don’t know what to do. And…” Her breath hitches just the smallest bit, and Bucky’s shoulders stiffen as he prepares for her to collapse into tears once again.

“I don’t think any of us know what to do right now,” he says, words dripping with sincerity.

Slowly, her left hand comes to rest at the center of his chest, fingertips delicately tracking along his sternum. “I know you’re scared,” she says in a low voice. “I feel it. It’s gotten so hard to… block things out. I feel _everything_.”

“I know, baby,” he mutters, dropping a kiss in her hair. “Maybe that’s the first thing to work on. Maybe Wanda can help you… figure something out.”

She shrugs. “Something to do…”

“That’s something to do,” he affirms.

She lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want to take medication,” she tells him with an audible pout. “I don’t think…” Again, her words fade off into nothing.

Bucky pulls in a deep, steeling breath. “You’ve barely gotten out of bed in days,” he starts, feeling the certainty – and severity – of their situation creep in. “You either show no emotion at all or you’re a sobbing mess. You won’t eat. You won’t… you know something’s wrong.” His voice drops an octave as he utters in her ear. “You _know_ something’s wrong.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s… that,” she tries, wrinkling her nose in something akin to disgust.

“You know,” he starts, small lilt to his tone, “you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.” She huffs into him and he can almost feel her eyes roll. “You’re special and powerful and strong and… absolutely amazing. But you are still human. You’re not above feeling what any other _human being_ in your position would feel. Hell, if any other person went through just a fraction of what you’ve had to deal with in the past year, you bet your ass they’d be spending their days laid out on some shrink’s couch.”

She pops up instantly, wide eyes boring into him. “I’m not going to therapy,” she declares thickly. “Maybe… _maybe_ I’ll agree to take something. Just to get me through this… whatever this is. But I’m not… I can’t…”

His expression is imploring, deep blue eyes cutting through her even in the dim light cast by the moon. But he doesn’t try to convince her, doesn’t try to get her to agree to something he knows she simply won’t do. “I’m not going to make you do anything,” he says, words clipped.

She gives a single, firm nod and settles back into him, dropping her heavy head to his shoulder once again. “I don’t know what to do,” she mutters lightly, hand still pressed against his chest, his heartbeat pulsing in her palm. “But I promise I’ll do something. For you.”


	28. Hope

Tony’s not entirely sure what he’s going to say – nor is he entirely sure what he’s going to find – when he raps on Tessa’s office door. But he damn well knows he has to say _something_. She’s been out for just over a week, rumors and speculation mixing with the cold hard truth that he’s heard from the team to set off echoing warning bells inside of his head.

He’s no stranger to post-traumatic stress, of course. None of them are. And guilt and regret and sorrow. Fear. He’s been through it all himself. But going through something and _helping_ someone through something – especially when that someone is someone you love – are two very different things. Plus there’s that nagging voice in the back of his head that just keeps saying, _this is all your fault_ over and over and over again.

“You’re back.” Those two words – that casual observation offered in lieu of a greeting – are what he somehow settles on saying as he looms sheepishly in her doorway.

She glances up at him before quickly redirecting her eyes back to the computer screen in front of her. “Yep.”

“Feeling better?” he asks as he steps into the room, gently swinging the door shut behind him.

“Mmmhmm,” she mutters. “Just a… bad flu.”

He flops down in one of the chairs opposite her desk, splaying out in it in typical Tony Stark fashion. “The flu… weird. No one else around here was sick.”

Still refusing to look at him, she simply replies, “Yeah. Well… guess I got lucky.”

He pulls himself upright and leans forward, raises a single assessing eyebrow at her. “You do know that I know _everything_ , right?”

She finally turns to him, her face unreadable from behind the dark-rimmed glasses. “I know that you _think_ you know everything.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment – his gaze deep and imploring, her glower hesitant and defensive. “You didn’t used to lie to me,” he mutters softly, his countenance suddenly solemn. “Not to me.”

She blinks and looks away, swallows thickly before saying, “I was… under the weather. I’m sorry.”

“ _Under_ the weather or _over_ whelmed?”

She glances back, cocking her head at him, brows wrinkled in confusion.

He rises swiftly and begins an anxious pace around her office, back and forth in front of her desk. Her eyes track him, head following side to side as though watching a slow-motion tennis match. “Did I do this?” he asks, tone sharp as he spins around to face her. “You can level with me. Did I… ask too much?”

Tessa rolls her eyes and lets out an annoyed snort. “Because I’m so… what? Fragile? You think some long hours and boring board meetings are going to break me?”

He leans forward, spreading his palms wide on the top of her mahogany desk. “Is that what happened?” he asks, an odd crack to his voice. “You… broke?”

Her lips part, mouth opening is if to speak. But no words come out. Her mind is too preoccupied with fighting off the internal chastisements – _Idiot! Why’d you say that?_ – and the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry.

Maybe coming in today was a bad idea. She had slipped back into work from the compound late last week… checking emails from home before gathering the strength – the courage – to go down to the lab and catch up on some things in her office. But she’d avoided the Tower. She’d managed to stay away from this place for over a week, knowing all along that the longer she was away, the worse it would be when she finally came back. The more work there’d be to catch up on, the more questions and worried glances there’d be to address. But even knowing that, it took everything inside of her to get herself into the city this morning. And now, just two hours in, she’s regretting ever getting out of bed.

As if he can sense that she’s about to dissolve into tears in front of him – and really, it’s probably not so hard for him to simply see it on her face, she imagines – Tony pulls away from the desk, straightening upright, and says, “I’m sorry,” shaking his head and breathing out a long sigh. “I didn’t mean…” He looks back down at her with somber brown eyes and she – despite trying so hard to block it all out – can feel his concern and reticence roll over her.

_Keep it together_ , she tells herself, pulling her lips closed and working to swallow down the tears that throb in the back of her throat. _Keep it together._ “I’m…” she starts, trying to steel her voice. “I’m not _broken_.”

“No.” He shakes his head adamantly. “No. I know you’re not.” He offers a small but genuine smile. “You’re way too stubborn to _break_.” His gaze drops down to her desk, eyes tracing over all of the stacked files, random Post-It notes, and odd knickknacks that litter the surface. “Natasha told me.”

She watches as he lingers in front of her, nervously avoiding her eyes. “Natasha told you what?”

He clears his throat. “Natasha told me that you were depressed.”

She cringes at the word. “I’m not depressed.”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling his gaze back up to meet hers. “No. I know. People like us… we don’t get _depressed_. We get… consumed. Depleted.” Another earnest smile is tossed her way. “We take on a lot,” he says with a slow nod. “And sometimes it ends up being too much.”

She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth, nipping at it for a moment before releasing it to speak, her voice soft and pensive. “It’s like… my batteries went dead.”

Tony huffs out a snort of a laugh and drops into one of the chairs again. “Yeah,” he intones. “Yes. It’s just like that.” He quirks a grin at her. “You’re still recharging?”

The corners of her lips pull up as well. “Trying to.”

“If you need more of a break – ”

“No,” she bites out, shaking her head. “No. I… I _want_ to work.”

He lets out a sardonic laugh as he collapses back into the chair. “Sure you do.”

“I do,” she argues. “You know I love to work.”

“Not anymore,” he mutters, breathing the words out with a thick note of despair. “Not since I asked you to… work on _this_ …” He looks up at her with unbearably guilty eyes. “I know what I’m asking you to do. I knew it at the time too. But…” He begins to shake his head once more, a slow, remorseful measure. “I just didn’t see any way around it. Sometimes the best way to keep your head above water – the only way – is to stop fighting and let the tide pull you under for a minute.”

She almost tells him then and there. Almost spits out the secret that’s been eating away at her for months. _I know how to inhibit mutant powers_. _I’ve known all along, and I’ve never told you. And once the team started moving in the right direction, I started throwing up roadblocks and sabotaging the research._ The last few words play in her head on a loop… _sabotaging the research. Sabotaging._

She can’t tell him that. He’ll hate her if he knows that.

She locks onto his mournful gaze and breathes out a long, pained sigh. “There’s just… a lot going on right now,” she says to him instead. “I’m not going to say that I _like_ working on this project. I don’t. You know I don’t. But… it’s not just that.”

He nods, a knowing look rising to his features. “Well,” he breathes out. “I was thinking that maybe you should start working on something that you actually might _like_.”

Her face twists in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I know you have a lot to do in overseeing the Inhibitor Project, but I thought that you could hand off some more of the day-to-day management of it to Vargas and then you could work more on… whatever pet projects you have going.”

A slight, almost biting laugh bubbles out of her. “Tony, I don’t have any _pet projects_. I haven’t had time for anything like that in ages.”

“Well then maybe it’s time to make time.”

The disbelieving laugh turns into a genuine chuckle. “You know, everyone else in my life right now is telling me to stop. To take it easy, take a break. And here you are trying to give me _more_ work.”

He flashes a bright smile – “Because I know how you think.” – and rises from his seat, giving her an almost mischievous wink. “They all _think_ they know you,” he says, waggling a finger in her direction. “But I _know_ I know you.” He taps lightly on her desk. “And I’m not asking you to work _more_. I’m telling you to work on something else… something you actually want to work on. You deserve that.”

“Thanks, Tony,” she says, turning back to her diabolically long list of emails and notifications from the past week. “I will consider your offer.”

He spins around to leave the room, tossing back over his shoulder as he goes, “Not an offer, buttercup. That’s an order.”

000

There’s something about Peter Parker that just plain makes Tessa smile. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a dorky kid with a snarky sense of humor. Maybe it’s that he has a moral compass on par with Captain America. Maybe it’s because he’s an obvious genius, yet never acts like he knows better than anyone else. Or maybe it’s just that the kid is filled with a bright, innocent, painfully optimistic sort of energy that causes her psyche to positively brim over with _hope_.

Yes, that’s probably it. Hope.

It’s not really why she called him up a few weeks ago – just after Tony’s declaration that she needed a new pet project – to invite him to the Tower. It’s not the _main_ reason she asked him for his help on her new project. And it certainly wasn’t the driving force behind her – spontaneously, without even checking with HR – offering him a summer internship. But it was most assuredly something playing in the back of her mind the entire time.

_Hope_.

The world needs hope right now. Her people – Mutantkind – need hope. Tessa herself _needs_ hope.

And looking at his big, bright puppy-dog eyes shining on either side of that furrowed brow as he processes the news she just gave him… that makes her positively buzz with hope.

“Okay,” Peter ekes out, nodding slowly. “So you think that my genetic code could help to _cure Cancer_?”

Tessa nods excitedly, a long-dormant sense of joy tugging her lips into an eerily familiar grin. “I mean, it’s all conjecture right now. But the handful of tests I’ve run so far show that your blood mounts an immunologic response unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” She moves quickly to the other side of her desk to pull up a holoscreen. “Thanks for those samples, by the way.”

“Yeah, no problem.” He squints at the files she hurriedly pulls up, trying – desperately – to make sense of what he’s seeing, all the while praying she doesn’t discern his ineptitude.

When Dr. Sullivan called him up and asked if he’d be willing to take part in a very important, very _secret_ potential project at Stark Industries, he had to keep from embarrassing himself with an over-excited affirmative shout.

The superhero stuff – being Spider-Man, getting the opportunity to work with Mr. Stark, maybe one day getting to be an Avenger – that would all be a dream come true for any 15-year-old kid out there. And he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat at the prospect of it all. But getting to work on a top-secret project at the premier science and tech firm in the world? That was something _Peter Parker_ had only ever envisioned in his wildest dreams.

But there’s even more to this opportunity than just that… just being at Start Industries. Hell, he’d been trying to plant the seed of an internship in Tony’s mind for a while now, and he was fairly certain he’d one day manage to worm his way in. Truth is, the main thing he’s been geeking out about since receiving the call from Dr. Sullivan was getting the chance to work with Dr. Sullivan herself.

After their strange and mysterious meeting – and bloodletting – that Tony set up a few months back, he’d pulled up everything he could find on this _premier geneticist_. He hadn’t heard of her before, but he knew she must be something pretty amazing to be heading up the medical research division at SI… and to be the Avengers’ lead physician. And she looked to be pretty young too. _And hot_ , he had thought more than a few times to himself. So he was… intrigued to say the least.

At first, he found very little about her. A handful of articles here and there, and some papers she had co-authored on some pretty interesting topics that he, admittedly had only limited knowledge about. But then he dug a little deeper – in _those_ places on the internet – and he found _a lot_.

She had worked with SHIELD on a handful of projects, including something to do with Captain America when he came out of the ice – strangely much of that particular file remained redacted, even on the dark web.

There were bits and pieces of files within the info that Black Widow had released those years prior that looked to be surveillance, as though SHIELD – or Hydra – had been keeping tabs on her. Dr. Teresa Sullivan, graduate of Columbia University School of Medicine, top of her class. Transferred credits from an internship done at a place called Muir Island, which he could find no information on other than it was often referred to as The Mutant Research Center. She specialized right out of school in human genetics and was recorded as an independent contractor for several highly specialized firms, including MedGen and GeneTech. So he _knew_ that she must be good. He _knew_ that she must have some amazing skills or knowledge or background in genetics – specifically _mutant_ genetics, he figured, because why else would SHIELD be so interested? But as much as he scoured the internet, he couldn’t find a single thing that pointed him towards _what_ she actually did to make her expertise so coveted.

Which only intrigued him further.

So when she called out of the blue and asked him to come in, he jumped at the chance. And when she asked if she could _borrow_ a bit more of his blood, he happily obliged. And when she asked him if he’d like to work for her part time this summer – _Tony mentioned your interest in and aptitude for all things science, and I pulled your school records and noticed that you seem to have a particular interest in biochemistry. –_ he very nearly passed out before her, missing his chance to enthusiastically say, _yes_.

“So… what _exactly_ am I looking at here?” he asks, trying to insinuate that he has at least a passing familiarity with the near gibberish displayed on the screen before him.

“Peter, what is one of the biggest challenges in the fight against Cancer currently?” she asks, her voice high with zeal.

“The increased threat of carcinogenic materials in the modern world?”

“No. Well… yes. But, c’mon, we were just talking about your immune system.”

He nods. “Right. Yeah. Well… then…” He digs deep in the back of his mind, mentally traipsing through articles and research papers in the hopes of finding the right answer. “Supplying targeted immunotherapies that are able to effectively recognize malignant cells and launch a consistent immune response against them?”

She snaps her fingers and beams at him. “Yes!”

A buoyant sort of joy bursts to life in his gut. “And… my cells can do that?”

She flops down in her chair and shrugs. “Preliminary tests show that your T-cells and B-cells were able to launch an effective immune response against tumor cells from 15 different samples.” She points up at the left-hand side of the holoscreen where several neon blobs continue to move around each other. “That there is your phagocytes devouring cells from a glioblastoma.” She leans forward in her seat, expression bordering on gleeful when she raises a brow and repeats for him, “ _Glioblastoma_.”

“Wow,” he mutters, staring at the image on the screen. “Cool.”

She gazes up at the screen as well, chin resting on her propped-up fist as she too breathes out, “Yeah. Cool.”

“So,” he starts, forehead furrowing thickly. “What do we do?”

“Well, for starters, we don’t tell anyone.” She cocks a warning brow at him. “I haven’t entered in anything that would ID you or tie you to these samples. But that doesn’t mean someone wouldn’t be able to connect the dots if they got ahold of this. The last thing I want is for you to turn into some kind of human guinea pig.”

He nods and lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah. I appreciate that.”

“I’m serious, Peter,” she tells him, voice and expression suddenly grave. “I know what people in the scientific community – the _fringe_ community – would do for something like this. Something like _you_.”

He gives her a concerned look, nodding again as he takes in her solemn demeanor and weighty stare.  “Can I ask you something?” he breathes out cautiously.

“Sure,” she says, tone hesitant.

He quirks his head curiously. “How do you know?”

She releases a long, deep sigh, her eyes flicking back behind him to check and make sure – for the umpteenth time since Peter arrived – that her office door is completely shut. “I’ve seen it,” she utters casually. Then, looking back up at the kid in front of her, a sad sort of smile stretches across her face. “You know, you remind a lot of someone I used to know.”

“Let me guess… You?”

“Yeah,” she says, dreamy quality to her voice. _Anna_ , sounds in her mind… the name flitting around in the corners of her subconscious. _Anna_. “From a long, long time ago.” She looks back up at him, connecting fiercely with his innocent gaze. “Back when the world still gave me reasons to be optimistic.”

He frowns at her – “There are always reasons.” – then waves his hand in the air to indicate the holoscreen. “You might be able to cure Cancer!”

“Maybe,” she states, her jaw ticking to the side as her gaze trails off to watch the cell cultures on a loop.

“Dr. Sullivan,” Peter starts, leaning onto her desk and slanting closer to her. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

She looks up at him and smiles gratefully despite the doubt roiling in her gut. “I want this to be what you work on this summer. I’ve already requested to have your clearance upped so you’ll have access to the labs.” He pulls back, face grimacing in confusion. “What? Did you think we were just gonna bury you in administrative tasks or something?”

“Well, yeah… I mean, I’m an intern, right?”

She nods. “You are. But I can’t have just anyone working on this. And I can’t keep up with all of the time-sensitive testing myself. I have a shit-ton of other work to do. I can show you exactly what needs to be done and when. It’ll be a great learning experience for you. And who could I trust more to keep the identity of the donor safe than the donor himself?”

“Yeah, of course,” he issues out hurriedly. “I mean… I… I’d be honored. Or… not honored. But… yeah. Yes. That’d be… awesome.”

“Great!” she enthuses, clapping her hands together. “Alright. I’ll see you in the lab on the twenty-third floor on Monday. Eight AM.” She pauses briefly, quirking her head, brow furrowed. “This is your last week of school, right? I’m not enticing you to play hooky… contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”

There’s a quick huff of a laugh as Peter shakes his head. “No. No you’re not. Today was my last day before summer vacation.”

“And you’re okay with skipping the _vacation_ part of your summer?” she asks, assessing brow raised high.

He nods excitedly.

“Okay then. Eight AM. Twenty-third floor. We’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other this summer, Peter Parker,” she tells him, sly eyebrow cocked. “I hope you’re ready for that.”


	29. Good to a Fault

“I’m telling you,” he mutters plaintively, holding the door open as she sweeps ahead of him into the apartment in Stark Tower. “I don’t remember it being this… filling.”

Tessa laughs lightly as she spins around to flip on the lights, the soft melodic sound being almost enough to divert Bucky’s attention from the pound of bread and cheese sitting in his gut. “Oh, poor baby,” she mocks thickly. “Getting so old he can’t even have a few slices without indigestion.”

“It’s sitting in me like a brick,” he mumbles with a grimace, pulling another airy laugh from the woman now in the kitchen.

They had gone to Digrispino’s, the little Chicago-style pizzeria she’d taken him to on their first date. Well, what _he_ considered to be their first date anyway. “Just because I brought you into my bed after,” Tessa had protested when he showed up at her office to take her out for their _unofficial_ anniversary, “doesn’t mean it was actually a date.”

He’d given her an incredulous look as she bounded down the hall, eager to get out of the building before anyone could stop her with a question, problem, or complaint. “Oh really? So that’s just what you do after a regular old _friendly_ pizza outing?”

She turned to him once the elevator doors closed, sidled up close, her breath hot on his chin as she said, “Not in the last three years, I haven’t.” A small smile pulled at his lips as he leaned down and delicately kissed the corner of her mouth. The moment he pulled away, she’d let out a long, labored sigh and announced, with just enough mirth to set a fire in his core, “Maybe tonight I’ll start it up again.”

It wasn’t the only moment of lightheartedness – not the only bit of playfulness nor sign of a building ease within her – that he picked up on throughout the evening. And he certainly did notice _every single one_. Every genuine smile. Every snort of a laugh and deep, raucous chortle. Every light, teasing joke. Every casual touch. Each and every thing she did that reminded him of _her_. Of the Tessa he had pizza with three years ago tonight. Of the overworked, yet oddly energetic scientist who intrigued him to the point of convincing him to lay himself bare in front of her. Of the intoxicatingly beautiful, amazingly brilliant, utterly passionate woman he fell in love with. Of the strong, unbreakable spirit he knew still resided inside of the woman before him now.

He spent half of his time at dinner focusing on her gaze – the clarity of her eyes – constantly seeking out an answer to the question he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask. _Are you okay?_ But for the first time in over a month he felt like the answer might just be _yes_.

Bucky listens to her laugh echo out from the kitchen as she inters their leftovers in the fridge, lets the sound drift through him, setting the tight fibers of his muscles at ease. He stands idly by the now-shut door, his eyes scanning the apartment, expecting to find used dishes and dirty clothes strewn about – despite her only having stayed here a handful nights over the last several weeks. But the place is pristine.

His brow furrows as he asks, amused lilt to his tone, “Did you clean in here?”

She moves back into the living room, handing him a beer as she glides past to sit atop the arm of the couch. With a soft sigh, she flops exhaustedly backwards onto the cushions. “There’s a maid,” she mutters, rolling awkwardly to deposit her bottle of water on the coffee table to her left. “What do you take me for?”

His head shakes lazily back and forth, small chuckle bubbling from his chest as he meanders around the room. It’s been a few months since he’s been up here, typically making it a point _not_ to spend much time in the fully furnished apartment in the Tower. He refuses – no matter what Pepper Potts may have intended when designing the space – to think of this as his place too. It’s Tessa’s work apartment, nothing more. It’s her place to stay when things get so hectic that she can’t make it out of the city and back home to him. But it isn’t _his_ home. And it isn’t really _her_ home either. So it certainly isn’t _theirs_.

And yet…

There are pictures hung on the walls and smaller photos in sleek frames decorating the shelves, that show the trajectory of _both_ of their lives.

Individually, they’re represented. An old black-and-white of Bucky with his mom and sister that Pepper had downloaded from an archive somewhere – the wide Barnes smile dripping off of his and Becca’s faces as they stand on either side of their slight-seeming mother. A snapshot that Clint had offered from a meetup with Tessa in Rome – the young woman smiling and laughing with Laura Barton as the two new friends sit near a fountain eating gelato.

And together… There’s a candid from their first New Year’s Eve Stark-thrown gala – Tessa laughing heartily, her eyes crinkling at the edges as Bucky awkwardly tugs at his bowtie. Another one that Steve snapped when they all went out to Coney Island – just the two of them, big goofy grins pulling at their ruddy, wind-burned cheeks as they smile for the camera.

And it’s not just photos either. There’s a framed sketch that Steve did of the Brooklyn skyline as it appeared from his fire escape – whether he had drawn it when he was a kid or recreated it from memory much, much later, Bucky hadn’t a clue. And there’s a giant genuine Captain America war bonds poster hanging over the desk in the corner, a thing that never fails to make him smile.

There are little touches throughout the apartment – from the blue-gray paint on the walls, the same color as Tessa’s first apartment in the Tower, the place they first fell in love; to the sleek, dark leather of the headboard in the bedroom, a thing that Bucky prized the moment he saw it – that make it plainly obvious Pepper Potts somehow _knew_ them. Both of them. And she wanted this place to be _theirs_.

But still… it’s too close to work for Tessa, makes it too easy for her to get pulled away. And it’s too far from what _he_ knows – Steve, the Avengers’ training grounds, the people he reluctantly thinks of as family. And – worst of all – it’s in Stark’s building.

And yet…

He wanders over to the wall of windows, stares out into the dark night, peppered bright by the city lights below. He feels Tessa come up behind him, her warmth bleeding into his back as she winds her arms around his middle and lays her chin atop his shoulder blade. “You ever miss the city?” she asks softly, as though she can read his mind.

“Maybe,” he mutters with a crooked grin. He lets out a light sigh and shifts in her grasp, pulling out of her hold just enough that he can scoop her around to his side. She ducks in beneath his arm, fitting perfectly into the pocket he creates for her. “This is a pretty nice place,” he cedes, steeling himself for the cajoling that’s sure to come. He’s never admitted it before, never admitted the obvious truth that this apartment – for all it’s aforementioned faults – seems to be made for them.

But she doesn’t laugh and tease. Not even close. He feels her stiffen next to him, her shoulders tightening as she nearly whispers, “Probably won’t have it for much longer. Once Tony finds out… I’ll be gone.”

_Damn_ , he thinks to himself, eyes falling shut for a quick, bitter moment. They’d made it the whole night so far not talking about a single… problematic thing. There was no work – no talk of the mutant cure. No low-down on Lobe’s activities – though Bucky was aching to remind her every five minutes to be more careful, more vigilant, now that they’ve lost track of him entirely. There was no mention of the world outside – nothing about the newest proposed anti-mutant legislation nor false and misguided reports about the supposed whereabouts of the vigilante X-Men. It had just been _them_ … none of the rest.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, curling into him, obviously sensing that she’d broken their bubble.

He shakes his head lightly. “Don’t be. If it’s on your mind,” he says, twisting around to look down at her, “we should talk about it.”

She pulls in a deep, reticent breath and throws back her shoulders. “Nope,” she issues curtly. “Don’t want to talk about it… not any of it.” She turns her gaze back out the window to the dancing lights below, and bumps her hip playfully into Bucky. “I don’t know about the city. Maybe we should move to the country. Leave all this behind.”

He drapes his arm around her again, pulling her close as he chuckles deeply. An untenable grin flits across her face as she settles next to him, feeling his chest vibrate with laughter. “What would we do in the country?” he asks, an almost dreamy quality to his voice.

She sighs. “Raise cats?”

Another quick laugh shudders through him before he utters, tone serious, “We’re not getting another cat.”

She twists her face to look up at him, deep green eyes round and sincere. “You don’t think Eddie deserves a friend?”

He returns her puppy-dog gaze with a steely stare of his own. “I spent two hours yesterday putting together a fountain – _a fountain_ – for that animal to drink out of. No. I think he already has more than he deserves.”

“But just imagine… a farm full of kitties…”

He shakes his head and holds her tight. “I don’t know that I can imagine anything worse,” he says with a crooked smile before laying a kiss atop her head.

They try to watch a movie, snuggled together on the couch, but they don’t get very far. It’s not ten minutes in before they’re pawing at each other like horny, greedy teenagers. Maybe it’s something about this place – the Tower – rekindling the magic of pre-love, of the days when every touch offered and sound uttered was new and raw and fiery.

There’s an aching, burning heat building between them, one that neither has felt for some time. Bucky thinks about that – in between frenzied kisses and tight, firm grabs. He thinks about how long it’s been since they fucked. Not _made love_ – which, even that had been a while with all that Tessa’d been going through. And not simply _had sex_. But _fucked_. Hard and wild and desperate.

At some point he carries her off to the bedroom, torn blouse hanging half off her body, his jeans working to trip him up as he kicks them off his ankles while he moves. And by then, the time in between _then_ and _now_ hardly seems to matter at all. Whenever it was that they last tore into each other’s bodies like this is lost to memory. All that matters now is that they’re doing it again. And everything about it feels so right, so familiar… so _good_.

The heat burns off between them – after they each climax and slowly fall back down to earth – leaving a soft, warm glow in its wake. Here, in this sprawling king-size bed, city lights flickering in the distance from outside their 41st floor window, the sound of Tessa’s slow, steady breathing perking his ears even as the breath itself tickles his naked chest… here and now, everything is right. Everything is good.

His fingertips brush lightly along the smooth leather of the backboard behind him before falling into her wavy hair. He absently twines his fingers through the loose curls, his lids growing heavy, relaxation seeping into his bones.

Until… “Bruce thinks I should be in therapy.” Her voice is soft, almost meek. Her fingertips, which had been tracing lazy circles along his ribs, still as the words plummet from her mouth, each one pressing into his flesh with a penetrating pressure.

And just like that, the _good_ seeps through his grasp, like warm water flowing through parted fingers.

“Yeah?” he mutters simply.

“He said he thinks my _depression_ ” – still unwilling to admit that’s what the debilitating darkness even was… _is_ – “is mostly situational. And while he’s glad that the medication has helped, he doesn’t want to keep prescribing something that’s ultimately just going to act as a band aid and not actually _fix_ any of the underlying problems.” She falls silent for a long, tense moment, her entire body stiffening beside him. “You’re not going to say anything?” she asks finally, twisting herself around and popping her chin onto his sternum to look up at him.

“You know how I feel,” he issues out with a small shrug. He’d suggested that she go see someone from the beginning. Even before this most recent, devastating bout of… whatever she wanted to call it, he’d been advocating talking to someone.

She looks away, laying her cheek back down on his chest. “It’s just… I’m so busy already.” She lets out a tight huff, one he recognizes right away as a defensive sort of sigh. “I work all the time.”

“At a job you now hate,” he supplies, the words rumbling up into her.

“I don’t hate _all_ of it,” she intones before her tone trips into a mawkish tenor. “And I’m never home with you. I don’t think Eddie even recognizes me anymore.”

“Bullshit.”

She shifts and looks up at him again, her eyes – he can see even in the dim lighting – beginning to cloud with emotion. “Yesterday, he ran away from me.”

“Yeah,” he says with a crooked grin. “Because he’s a cat.”

She lets out another harrumph and buries her face in his side. “I should be planning a wedding right now, not getting my head shrunk.”

“First of all,” he says, reaching down and inclining her face back up so that their eyes can meet, “We can plan a wedding any time. A party and a piece of paper don’t matter. _You_ matter.”

“Yeah, well…” The emotion continues to pool behind her eyes, even as she tries so hard to play it cool. “New laws are being passed every day. If we wait too long, we might not be able to have a wedding at all.”

It’s true. Certain states had already passed legislation to outline what constituted marriage – stating it must be between two consenting _humans_. Well, that may seem like a _duh_ statement… until these same states began legally defining what makes a human. Even New York – their home state, which had been a conscientious objector throughout so much of the rise of anti-enhanced sentiment – was debating adding a test for the X-gene into the newly required blood tests for a marriage license. The reasoning was simple… they wanted to ensure that no _human_ was taken advantage of and tricked into marrying… one of them.

He feels his own eyes begin to cloud, a deep, thick pressure building behind them. The thought of people being so cruel and callous – working to try and prevent their happiness – setting a sharp stab of anger – and sorrow – through him.

But that’s not what this is about. Not entirely. That may be a reasonable exacerbator of her depression, but he wasn’t going to let her use any of it as an excuse for not trying to get better. “You’ve never been resistant to my therapy,” he tries gently. “You’ve always told me how important you think it is.”

“It is,” she says, pulling herself upright. “It’s so important for you. I know because I can see what it’s done for you, how far you’ve come.” He smiles up at her, a knowing, almost chiding grin. She shakes her head. “It’s not the same,” she argues. “You were… tortured. Brainwashed. There’s no medication that can reset your mind after that… nothing that can help you relearn how to think for yourself and get back to being you.” He continues to stare at her, unmoved by her distinction. “It’s _different_.”

He reaches up and cups his palm over her cheek. “There’s no medication that can make you forget the terrible things that have happened in your life either. There’s no magic pill you can take to keep you from having to deal with the crap at work or all of the shit the world’s throwing at you right now.”

She breathes out a long, pained sigh and slowly shakes her head. “Even if I wanted to… I _can’t_. I can’t go into some stranger’s office and tell them about my family – the X-Men. I can’t talk about what it felt like to be cut off from who I was for so long… and then to have it all come flooding back. I can’t get into my… my _fears_ or _anxieties_ about using my powers. Or the guilt about what I’ve already done with them. Or the guilt about not having done enough with them. I can’t go into someone’s office and talk about being a mutant. I can’t… put that out there. Not right now. Not with how things are.”

He doesn’t argue. Because he knows it’s true. No one can know right now. It’s too dangerous – not just because of the looming national registry, but because of the mutant-hunting madman who’s out there, lurking in the shadows.

But it’s also dangerous for her to go on like this.

He nods haltingly, a terribly hesitant assent. And he curves his hand back behind her naked hip, beneath her bottom, so he can sweep her closer to him. She curls into him again, laying her head on his flesh-and-bone shoulder. “We’ll figure something out,” he says, the words utterly meaningless, their futility hanging heavy in the air. But there’s nothing else he can say, nothing else he has to offer. “We’ll figure something out.”


	30. Do Your Damn Job

The debrief is rather, well, brief.

It’s the first meeting – since the Avengers’ investigation into the UN bombing officially began – that Tessa sits in on. And her presence does _not_ go unnoticed.

Of course, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Natasha all knew she’d be here. They’d each told her at different times and in very different ways – from _I’d really appreciate it if you came_ to _your ass better be in that conference room_ – that she was, in fact, expected to take part.

But the two support team members whom she barely knows – and who barely know her – clearly are not expecting to find the team doctor bouncing uncomfortably in a large chair at the corner of the conference table when they enter.

This is, after all, a secure room, cleared of all non-essential personnel. It’s the place they’ve gathered to lay out a strategy for bringing down some of the most-wanted people in the world. Not that anyone out there really knows they’re wanted – no, that intel has stayed quiet and safe within the top-secret files kept by those who actively run the Avengers Initiative. But this absolute adherence to security protocol is precisely the reason why matching expressions of _what the hell is a non-sanctioned person doing in here?_ roll across the befuddled faces of Atkinson and Robson as they slowly file into the room.

Sam snorts out a laugh at their looks of dismay as he drops heavily into the chair at Steve’s right. His eyes tick briefly over to Bucky’s gleaming metal hand, his fingers wrapping around Tessa’s to offer a quick, reassuring squeeze as he sits down beside her. The Falcon can’t help but chance a glance over at Atkinson, smirking slightly when he sees her annoyed expression as she takes in the sight.

Steve clears his throat thickly as everyone takes their seats, then he looks across the table at Natasha. “Romanov,” he starts without preamble. “What’ve you got?”

The redhead leans casually back in her chair, reciting mission notes from memory even as Atkinson – who’s sitting staunchly upright, all prim and proper… and increasingly nervous, to her left – pulls out her notes. “We’ve identified the woman who accompanied San Paulo. Brigitte Brecht. Thirty-four years old. Born in Hamburg, emigrated to Montreal ten years ago to begin work with a pharmaceutical company called Simmons-Alters.” She raises a cautious eyebrow at Steve, finishing with, “No clue how she ended up in Brazil.”

His forehead furrows, confusion lacing his words when he asks, “No clue? What happened in the last ten years?”

Natasha shrugs. “Seems like nothing. She worked at Simmons-Alters up until this time last year. Then she just… disappeared.”

“Sounds like Kramer,” Bucky mutters under his breath. He’s not wrong. They had a very similar conversation just a few weeks back about the utter lack of useful intel the team had gathered on Skull Guy when they went to Toronto to dig into his past.

“Are we’re sure she’s our mystery woman?” Sam inquires. “How’d we make the ID?”

She shifts her gaze to the blonde by her side, a self-assured smile splitting Atkinson’s face as she takes her opportunity to participate in the debrief. “We dug into surveillance footage from area airports, train stations, bus stops… tracing our way back from Bonito until we finally noticed the same woman traveling through similar stops around the time of the known meetups. Then we found a single image of her _with_ San Paulo from a gas station camera just outside of Brasilia _two days_ before the attack on the UN.”

“They seemed _very_ close,” Robson interjects blithely.

Atkinson nods. “Which tracks with the old woman’s assumption that they were a couple.”

Steve’s face turns stern. “And we don’t have anything on her since then? That was almost 6 months ago.”

Natasha shakes her head slowly. “That’s the last piece of footage we found. For all we know, she’s dead too.”

“What did she do at Simmons-Alters?” Everyone’s heads swivel over to the far corner of the table where Tessa sits, a thoughtful expression sweeping over her face. Her gaze ticks to the side as she absently sucks on the inside of her cheek, mulling things over.

“Her official title was Validation Specialist.”

The pensive countenance remains on her face as she mutters softly, almost to herself, “So if she _worked_ on the program, she was probably responsible for documenting and analyzing the processes.”

“Sorry, what?” Robson pipes up.

She turns to look at him, a hint of surprise flitting across her features as though she had forgotten that he – and the others – were still in the room. “Kind of like quality control,” she responds, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Any medication on the market has to be produced to the same exacting specifications to ensure consistency and – in as much as possible – effectiveness. A Validation Specialist helps set up processes, whether they be calibrating equipment or documenting procedures and practices, to ensure consistency as well as to simplify auditing. She may have been a subject, sure. But with a background like that, they could’ve brought her on to oversee the trials.”

His face splits into a crooked grin. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Yeah.” He gives an impressed nod. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome,” she mutters absently before leaning forward and looking down the table at Natasha, leveling her with a serious glare. “You said she started at Simmons-Alters ten years ago?”

Atkinson speaks quickly for her after finding in her notes, “Her hire date was 9-10-2006.”

Tessa nods slowly, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth as her eyes drift back off into that same introspective, far-off stare. Bucky grips her knee beneath the table, giving a gentle squeeze with his metal fingers. “What are you thinking?” he asks, voice so low the others in the room wonder if they were meant to hear it at all.

Her head swivels over to him, lips parting, ready to reply. But in her periphery, she notes the inquisitive looks of the two support team members, the only two people here whom she doesn’t know, and therefore doesn’t trust. Her eyes bounce back to Bucky’s and she tells him, tone stiff, “Scofield was at Simmons-Alters. I don’t know for sure when. Just… he mentioned he had been there for a bit before Genetech.”

“Aaron Scofield?” Atkinson asks, leaning forward and craning her head around Robson and Bucky to peer at the doctor.

Before she can even say yay or nay, Steve interrupts, asking pointedly, “Do we know where _he_ is? Both Lobe and Scofield can’t still be in the wind.” His inquiry is met with sudden silence and a number of guiltily averted gazes. “C’mon, guys!” He turns a wild stare on Sam, who pulls in a strong, steeling breath.

“We haven’t seen either of them pop up anywhere in almost a year.”

“We know they were in Brazil. We know Lobe was there, at the lab outside Bonito, just before the UN attack.” He turns to Natasha and her small team sitting across from him. “You traced back surveillance footage to find this mystery woman, but you found nothing on Lobe?”

She merely shrugs. “We looked. Vision even hacked into the feeds from area airports and depots. I don’t know how he’s been able to hide so well for so long… but we have _nothing_.”

Steve leans back in his chair, a disappointed look crossing his face. “Not acceptable.”

Tessa’s the next to speak, seemingly the only one not intimidated by the Captain’s displeasure. “There’s no way they abandoned everything. The base in Brazil might be gone, but there have to be more. That lab was tiny. They couldn’t possibly have done all of the work to get… where they needed to be at that facility.”

He slowly rocks back and forth in his chair, contemplating her words. “We know that base was up and running for almost year. At least that.”

“And there was the site outside Albany,” she goes on, an odd darkness graying her features at mention of the base they tried – and failed – to infiltrate this time last year.

“That was a big facility,” Steve muses. “But I don’t think they were running anything out of there. It was too clean. No way they would’ve had enough time to wipe everything that fast if they’d been fully moved in.”

Tessa raises a single assessing eyebrow. “Scofield said they were just getting started back then. But Lobe wouldn’t have been bringing on scientists – or looking for subjects – if there weren’t already R and D facilities in place.” She cocks her head at Steve. “You said there was another guy from Canada?” she asks, remembering back to the debrief he gave her several weeks ago, relaying everything they’ve gotten thus far.

“Kramer,” Natasha supplies. “The biomechanical engineer from Toronto.”

“And Simmons-Alters – where Brecht and Scofield _might_ have met – is based in Montreal,” Tessa mutters. “Cal said he sold the M-genes to someone in Canada, who turned out to be Scofield.” A thought dawns on her, her eyes widening a bit as she says, “Which means Scofield went back to Canada after Genetech.” She wrinkles her nose as she works to remember something else. “I think he said he was from somewhere near Toronto too.”

“And Canada has an official mutant registry in place,” Bucky adds, his voice deep, almost dangerous. “Easy pickings.”

Steve lets out a small huff. “We’ve been so focused on Brazil, but it was just a satellite location all along.” His eyes bounce around to meet the gaze of every person in the room before he states, with absolute authority, “We need to be looking in Canada.”

“It’s kind of a big place,” Atkinson murmurs, brows rising high. “We were just there looking into Kramer and we got less than nothing out of that.”

Steve glances over at her, a thoughtful expression on his face as he mentally plans their next move. “Vision got a lot of background info on Scofield, built a sort of profile on him. We know he’s in on Lobe’s project… might even be his top scientist. And he may well be connected to this Brecht.” He shrugs tightly. “Maybe Kramer too. So let’s start with him. Go back to Toronto, this time find Scofield’s family. Friends. Hit up college professors and former colleagues… anyone who might have a bead on where he is, what he could be doing, or who he might be doing it with.”

“He’s pretty forgettable,” Tessa utters with a dismissive shrug.

“Maybe,” he counters. “But he might be our biggest link.”

“Actually,” she interrupts suddenly, her eyes wide with an abrupt realization. “No. _Lobe_ ,” she intones, voice dropping an octave, “wanted to create the Third Species. So he was clearly very familiar with John Sublime’s writings. Might’ve even done some work with the U-Men.”

“I’m sorry,” Robson chimes in. “The _who_ -men?”

Tessa waves a dismissive hand in his direction, too focused to take the time to explain to him. She turns her intense gaze back on Steve. “Sublime had been part of the Weapon-X Program – Canada’s answer to the Super Soldier program. Cal said that Lobe didn’t _believe_ in any of Sublime’s teachings… the _religious_ aspect. He said he was just in it for the money, that he saw an opportunity to provide people with a service they were craving. But…” She stops briefly, pulling in a deep, steeling breath. “When he was with Cal…” her eyes shift over to the support team members, countenance growing cagey. “The _last_ time… he said something about playing a ‘long game’, one that Cal couldn’t possibly understand. He said that it wasn’t about the money… not _just_ the money. And then…” Her face scrunches up painfully as she works to retrieve the anomalous memories. “Then he said…”

_I am the beginning. And I will be the end._ She doesn’t speak the words, a thick, consuming shudder rolling over her body. Her breath catches and Bucky’s hand tightens on her knee.

Natasha easily picks up on the sudden discomfort and strives to pull her out of it. “You’re saying that Lobe may have been more influenced by Sublime than we first thought. And Sublime worked with the Canadian government? On this _weapons_ project?”

Tessa’s darkened gaze ticks over to her, her open mouth offering no words despite the small nod of confirmation.

“So _Lobe_ might actually be the main connection to Canada… in which case, we really need to look into him.”

Steve shakes his head in frustration. “We tried. We tried to find _anything_ on him. There’s nothing. We don’t even know his real name.”

“John Sublime,” Tessa offers softly, her voice trembling just the slightest bit despite her gathered demeanor. “Start with him.”

Steve nods simply, sharing a quick, commanding look with Natasha – all she needs to understand her orders. But the young woman by her side is not quite as easy. “I’m sorry,” Atkinson starts, her lids pressing firmly together as she shakes her head in irritation. “I don’t mean to be rude…”

“Always a good start,” Robson quips with a scoff.

She barely gives him a glance. “I know we may not have the clearance to know certain things… but I just… I don’t understand how the _team physician_ would have a higher security clearance than us. At least, that’s how it seems, because she’s talking about people – seemingly involved in this case – who we know _nothing_ about.”

“You don’t get to question how the security tiers work around here,” Bucky tells her, voice low and threatening.

Tessa reaches out and lays her hand atop his fisted one, calming the angry clench with merely a touch. “I think it’s a fair concern,” she argues, leaning over the table to peer around him and lock onto Atkinson’s stare. “I have some history with this case,” she explains slowly. “With these people. Because of some the work I used to do.” She offers a small, conciliatory smile. “I’m sure there are many ops where our roles will be reversed and you’ll know far more than I’ll ever hear.”

Sam scoffs from across the table. “I don’t know what your _official_ clearance level is, but I’m pretty sure you’d be able to get whatever you wanted out of anyone here.” He throws a quick glance at the tiny blonde, notices how her periphery is trained on Tessa’s hand as it sits atop Bucky’s, her long fingers pulled tightly into his grasp. “Well,” he corrects, suspicious brow cocked, “at least _most_ of the anyones here.”

Tessa, for her part, seems oblivious to Atkinson’s distracted gaze. She merely rolls her eyes. “Fine, Sam. I know everything and always will.”

“I just want to be sure that we’re not being sent out into the field with limited information, which we might later find to be compromising,” Atkinson states, her voice strong and decisive. There’s a stern, almost mean, look on her face as she finishes with, “I don’t want to be the one left in the cold… not knowing what the hell is going on… while _Dr. Sullivan_ gets to be in the know and part of the inner circle just because she has _personal_ ties to some of you.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, the angry tick of his jaw stilling the torrent of warning words that he feels collect in the back of his throat. But before he can speak – or Steve, for that matter, whose mouth falls open, at the ready – Tessa leans further forward to connect again with the woman’s eyes. “I’ve been a part of this team for almost five years,” she says in a calm, yet oddly menacing tone. “A _trusted_ member of this team. For the record, my security clearance – for reasons you don’t get to know – is the same as Captain Rogers’. And while I – all of us – can appreciate your concerns, I can’t help but feel a little offended that you would think any of these people would allow you to become compromised on a mission. The Avengers Initiative is comprised of an elite group of highly skilled, _professional_ individuals. And if you want to remain a part of it, I suggest you begin acting like one yourself.”

The blonde’s mouth gapes open, her brain working frantically to find the right words to defend herself.

But before she can say a thing, Steve gives a sharp nod and states simply, “Well put,” as he levels both Atkinson and Robson with a commanding stare. “You’re both with Romanov. Put together a plan for this next phase of recon and have it ready to present first thing in the morning. Then pack your bags to head back to Canada.” And with that, he quickly rises from the table, a wordless dismissal of those in the room.

000

“You know,” Bucky mutters in her ear the moment they make it back to their apartment after the meeting, “that’s exactly why everyone around here is so scared of you.”

She whips around to glare at him, her ire melting just the smallest bit when she sees the bright, teasing light to his eyes, the perk of a crooked smile. “No one’s _scared_ of me.”

“Intimidated as hell?” he asks, breezing past her and into the kitchen.

She follows him in, leaning her hip into the counter as she watches him dig through the freezer for a frozen pizza. “I get it,” she breathes out, chewing on the corner of her bottom lip. “I’d be concerned too if I felt like I was on the _outside_ … or like important information was being kept from me.”

He lets out a loud scoff and kicks the freezer door shut. “That’s not what that was about,” he mutters almost under his breath as he flips on the oven and starts peeling the film off a pizza.

“Yeah?” she asks softly. “What was it about then?”

He drops the pie onto a pan and turns to face her, leaning back against the warming oven as he does so. The lightness in his eyes has all but faded, leaving nothing more than a slight glimmer as he gazes at her with a sort of sincere longing.

“She’s jealous,” Tessa offers when he fails to respond. She ducks her head almost bashfully when the words spill out, bringing with them an odd mix of both satisfaction and foreboding.

“Schoolgirl crush,” he states blithely, stepping over to loom in front of her.

She lets him take her hands in his, watches as his thumbs slowly trace the tops of her knuckles. “She’s not a schoolgirl,” she corrects, never looking up to meet his gaze.

He sighs out, long and deep. “I don’t know what her deal is,” he says, matter of fact. “And I don't really care.” He gives her fingers a sharp squeeze, a silent indication that he wants her attention. She glances up, sees the strong, earnest look on his face. “She was out of line. And you put her back in her place.” He nods gently. “And you did it a hell of a lot more… _professionally_ … than I would’ve.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up even as her eyes drop their gaze once again. “Thought I was _scary_ and _intimidating_.”

He drops her hands and turns to head back to the oven, issuing out a short chuckle as he goes. “Oh, you were. I don’t know how you do it. It’s like…” He pauses briefly, eyes, flitting off to stare at nothing while he thinks. “It’s like the nuns,” he says finally, popping the pizza into the oven and spinning back to face her. “I was in Catholic school for a while and… those damn nuns. All they had to do was _look_ at you…”

She barks out an incredulous laugh. “Did you just compare me to a scary old nun?”

He shrugs. “I never said they were old… not all of them, anyway.”

“This isn’t going to become some kind of freaky fetish with you, is it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. He saunters back over, slowly runs his tongue along the ridges of his teeth as he takes hold of her hips and tugs her to him. “I’m not wearing a nun costume,” she declares plainly.

He leans into her, pressing a soft kiss to her neck. “It’s called a habit.”

“Whatever,” she mumbles. “Not doing it.”

He chuckles into her shoulder and rests his head there for a moment. “Now who’s no fun?”

She reaches up and slowly runs her fingers through his hair as his arms wrap lazily around her waist. She can feel the weariness within him, though she has to search a bit for it. In just the few weeks she’d been working with Wanda to try and regather control of her powers – specifically of her newly intense empathetic ability to read energy – her mind has quieted considerably. Strong emotions still bulldoze over any barrier she may put up, and when she’s particularly tired or unfocused, the energy of others can easily seep through. But overall, the _sensing_ of others has become far more manageable.

“I can’t tell if you’re just tired, or really irritated,” she mutters into him.

He pulls away slowly and gives her a crooked smile. “Tired.”

“Sure,” she says with a snort.

He relents with a sigh. “I just hate the grade school bullshit,” he states with a huff. “Is it so much to ask for everyone to just do their damn job?”

She shrugs, but says nothing.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise high as he continues on with, “Atkinson needs to get her shit together, but so do the others. I mean… how the hell have we not found these guys yet?”

_Ah, there it is_ , she thinks as the sudden sweep of worry and regret roll off of him and into her. She reaches up and sweeps a chunk of hair back behind his ear, cups her palm to his cheek. “Babe,” she starts, pushing aside his energy and regrouping her own. “I don’t think anyone is letting things slide here. Steve, Nat, Sam… they all know how important this is. They’re all working – ”

“Not hard enough,” he interjects, leveling her with a stony stare. “That bastard almost got you killed. He tried to… take you.” He shakes his head absently, his lips pinching tightly together as though refusing to allow additional words to bleed out. He brings his hand up to cover hers, tugs on her fingers a bit and slides her palm to his tense lips so he can press a quick kiss to her skin. “He could still be looking for you.”

She nods. “I know. He might’ve been all along. But, look where I am, Jamie. I’m surrounded by the Avengers. This compound is arguably one of the most secure facilities in the world.”

He raises a cautious brow at her. “You’re not always here.”

“No. But Stark Tower is almost just as secure.” He gives her an incredulous look. “And,” she intones quickly, “Tony’s insisting on going with me any time I head out to out to Seattle. As much as I think having a babysitter is total and absolute bullshit,” she inadvertently rolls her eyes – for probably the hundredth time since the decision to keep her under lock and key was made – “you’ve gotta be okay with the fact that my nanny is freaking Iron Man.” His look remains unchanged… unconvinced. “Steve’s forcing me to train with him… you always said you wanted me to have better self-defense skills, and now I do. Or … will.”

“Baby,” he mutters, a low groan as he shakes his head gloomily.

“ _And_ , let’s not forget that I’m more powerful than the rest of you combined.” He shoots her a dubious glare. “Okay,” she concedes. “Wanda’s pretty powerful. But I’m definitely better equipped than Sam. Aside from the being able to fly thing. But if I can get my hands on his wings…”

Bucky pulls in a long, deep breath, the sound causing her ramblings to halt. He looks at her with a sort of simple clarity in his light blue eyes. “I just don’t want to have to think about it… about him, and what he might do. I just want to find him and…”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and she’s actually glad for it. She knows what he _wants_ to do to Lobe. It’s no so far from what she wants to do him. “I know,” she utters quickly. “I know.”

000

His mind slowly shifts out of slumber, eyes blinking towards the dull lighted clock on the beside table. 2:18 AM. He lazily reaches behind him, his hand patting at twisted covers and an otherwise empty bed. With a small sigh, he throws back the sheet draped over his legs and swings himself upright. Taking just a moment to reorient himself, he notices an odd smell, an acrid – yet utterly familiar – scent just barely clinging to the air.

Bucky finds her out on the balcony, bare legs draped over the arm of one of the oversized patio chairs as she leans back, her head dangling over the opposite arm, a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. He slides the glass door open, causing her to jolt upright, fingers flying up to tug the cigarette away and stomp it out in one brisk motion. She shifts around in the giant chair, pulling herself upright and crossing her legs beneath her.

He says nothing, though she can see the concerned frown pulling at the edges of his mouth. His eyes flick down to the pack at her feet, the lighter laying beside it. And he picks them both up before lowering himself to the wooden balcony floor with a slight groan. She watches with curiosity, waiting for him to say something – to chide her for smoking. But all he does is slip a single cigarette from the pack, press it between his lips, light it up, and take a long, deep drag as though he’s done this dance a thousand times before.

A small hum of approval bubbles out of him, his eyes sliding shut for a quick blissful moment as he leans his head back against the wall. “God, that’s good,” he murmurs absently. “Smooth.”

A crooked smile perks her lips as she cocks an eyebrow in his direction. “When’s the last time you had a cigarette?”

He plucks the smoke from his mouth, holds it out in front of him between thumb and forefinger, and looks at it curiously. “1945.”

“Well, yeah, they have filters now,” she chuckles, watching as he takes another long drag.

“It’s been – what – three years?” he asks, puffing away like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I never had a clue you smoked.”

She reaches over and snags the cigarette from him, takes a deep pull before handing it back. “Yeah, well… neither did I.” She looks down at him and wiggles her eyebrows. “Apparently I was a _bad girl_.”

He smiles almost shyly. “I’ve no doubt.”

Her gaze lazily travels back out to the woods behind the compound – the slowly swaying trees filled with fluttering leaves, all coming alive in the early summer breeze. “Probably a good thing the Professor tried to hide that from me,” she utters softly. “I would’ve started up again ages ago if I remembered how great they were.”

“Yeah,” he says plainly as he creakily pulls himself upright. He palms the nearly full pack of cigarettes, glancing down at it. “Pretty great,” he agrees just before pulling back his arm and chucking the pack out into the woods.

“Hey,” she squeals in protest. “It isn’t 1945 anymore. Those are expensive.”

He leans his hip against the railing and turns to face her. Sucking down the last of his cigarette, he offers nothing more than a vague shrug.

Her face softens as she watches him. Tall, dark, and brooding, he cuts a striking figure with his exposed metal arm gleaming in the light of the nearly full moon. He’s wearing nothing more than boxers and a light, tattered T-shirt, but there’s something about his stance that’s still utterly intimidating – like a sentinel guarding his land. Or a soldier just waiting to head out for the kill.

“I’m not gonna lie,” she breathes out dreamily. “You look really fucking hot right now.”

He pulls what remains of the cigarette out from between his lips, a final, long inhale filling his chest with a long-forgotten warmth. He raises a brow at her and blows out slowly, pressing the butt into the railing at his side until all of the embers are ash. “Is this you trying to get me to go hunt down that pack?”

She shrugs playfully, coy smirk on her face just barely visible in the moonlight.

“Not gonna happen.”

He steps over and drops down into her chair, squeezing in beside her. She lets loose a string of small giggles as she unfolds herself and scoots to the edge of the seat before tossing her legs haphazardly over his lap. His right arm drops atop them, fingers tracing along her shins. He pauses over the long scar on her left leg, delicately trailing its length. “I thought about healing that,” she mutters, scooting closer to him so that she’s almost entirely in his lap. “But I thought…” She shakes her head quickly before dropping it to his shoulder. “I thought, even if it’s a bad memory… I don’t want to erase it.”

He nods, frown pulling at his features as he looks down at the scar – and the smaller ones forking off of it – each shining slivery in the pale light of the moon. “If you don’t think about where you were, how can you appreciate where you are?” he asks lightly.

She throws her head back and laughs, a quick but vivacious guffaw. “Well that was profound.”

He smiles shyly, eyes and fingers both still tracing her shin. “That’s just me, I guess.”

“I guess,” she agrees softly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

They sit like that for several long minutes, curled about one another as the warm air pools around them, blossoming into a cooling breeze that gently blows back their hair. He pats down her billowing curls, careful not to bend his metal fingers as he combs through her locks lest hair gets stuck between the plates. She feels his chest puff up and drop as he sighs long and deep. “You gonna tell me why you’re out here by yourself at two in the morning… smoking?”

She drops her head a bit, nuzzling near his collar bone, and he drapes his cool metal arm around her. “I’m not alone,” she mutters softly, the words barely audible. And he can’t help but wonder if that was a response to him, or just a reminder for herself.

“Bad dream?” he asks then, knowing the answer will be nothing more than a shrug.

To his surprise, she replies, “It was Cal. Him dying.” He pulls back to look at her, his eyes searching hers in the dark. His vision is better than most, so it’s no surprise that he’s able to easily discern the slight sheen over her green eyes and the small tick of her jaw as she says, “I just keep replaying it. Over and over and over again.”

“You keep dreaming about him dying?”

She nods. “I keep thinking that I missed something. That there’s something… _there_.” She shrugs in his embrace and turns her gaze away as she pivots her body closer to his. “All I ever hear is what he heard. All I ever see is what he saw. A small room. Two beds. Computers. Lobe. Blood. I just _feel_ … what he felt. Pain.” She wraps her arms around his middle, squeezing tight. “Fear.”

Bucky feels his chest constrict. “That sounds…” He hikes her legs up closer to him, almost forcing her to curl up into a ball on his lap. “Bad.”

She snorts out a sardonic laugh – “Yeah. Bad.” – and allows herself to be pulled to him, crumpled into his strong and shielding embrace.

“That’s probably not good for you, you know? Dreaming about… that. Thinking about him.”

“I just know I’m missing something,” she mutters absently before letting loose a long, drawn-out sigh. “Do you think it’s not good for me to think about him dying, or do you think it’s not good for me to think about _him_?” He can’t see her face, she’s pressed so tightly to him. But he’s sure she’s got a speculative eyebrow raised, almost accusing in it’s insight.

He pulls in a deep breath and slowly blows it out through his nose, an attempt at calming his suddenly tingling nerves. _Shouldn’t have tossed the cigarettes_ , he thinks to himself. “I think it’s not good for you to do anything that… hurts you.”

“Hm,” she hums, a barely there, noncommittal utterance.

He lets out another deep sigh and presses his eyes tightly shut. “Watching someone you love die…” He shakes his head plaintively, unable to finish the thought.

“ _Used_ to love,” she corrects after a moment. Then, nodding into his chest, “But, yeah. It’s hard.”

“How often do you dream about it?”

Silence.

“Tessa,” he tries again, tone deep and imploring. “How often are you having nightmares, doll?”

She shrugs. But still gives no response.

He pulls back and looks down at her, his face crinkled in confusion. “How long have you been smoking?”

She laughs then, light and airy – “Not long. I promise.” – and gazes up into his eyes. “And the dreams… they’re not like they were before. Not as bad.”

“Yeah,” he mutters plainly. “I figure I’d know if they were.” He cocks a brow at her. “At least you’re not waking up screaming every night.”

She smiles up at him. “And neither are you. Look how we’ve grown!”

He gazes down at her, a lightness in his eyes that belies the concern rolling off of him in thick, bitter waves. “You said you’d tell me if you were hurting.”

She nods and slowly unwraps her arms from around his middle, bringing her right hand up to cup his cheek. “I’m hurting,” she says sincerely. “But I’m also… okay.”

He wraps his metal fingers around her hand and brings it to his lips. He closes his eyes for a long moment, breathes in the scent of her lotion still clinging to the tips of her fingers. “Okay,” he breathes out simply, laying a long, lingering kiss on her palm. “Okay.”

The gentle sound of rustling leaves – paired with the soothing cadence of Tessa’s steady breaths – fills his ears once again as fatigue begins to weight his lids. He’s mere moments from drifting off – the lingering scent of tobacco and light kiss of a warm summer breeze causing a sense of peace to swell within him – when he hears, barely a whisper from the woman in his arms, “I just wish I knew what I’m missing.”


	31. Real Pain

“Please stop,” Tessa mutters pathetically from her prone position, splayed out like roadkill on the thick, sweat-slicked mat.

Steve grins crookedly down at her, taking an odd amount of pride in seeing her helplessly sprawled out below him. “I thought you were up for anything,” he intones with a mocking lilt, extending a helping hand. “Thought you could handle whatever I had to throw at you.”

She lets loose a wretched-sounding groan as he hoists her up. “What was I supposed to say – _Please Mr. Captain sir, do go easy on me. I’m just a weak little lady_?”

He chuckles deeply, beaming smile on his face. “Nobody would buy that you’re _just a weak little lady_. Now get back in your fight stance,” he says, his expression and tone quickly reverting back to stern instructor. “If you’re on your feet, you better be at the ready.”

Tessa rolls her eyes dramatically as she triangulates her feet and lazily pulls her hands up to guard her face. “I think you’re enjoying this a little too much,” she mutters as the two begin to circle one another.

He shrugs carelessly, never dropping his stance nor his stare. “Maybe. But I still think it’s important that you know how to defend yourself. So stop sulking and start sparring.”

They had decided a few weeks back – after it became clear that Lobe was still an active threat – that Tessa should learn how to fight like the others on the team. The argument made by Steve was that she shouldn’t always count on her powers to see her through. Especially considering how much _trouble_ she’d been having controlling those powers of late. He also argued that there may be times – particularly now, when laying low and keeping her mutant identity concealed was arguably more important than ever – that she simply wouldn’t be able to use her powers to defend herself. And because of that, she should start focusing on the physical training that she’d conveniently avoided for the past few years. Which – to be fair – really was, well… fair. After all, everyone else on the support teams, evac teams, and medical response teams had to pass certain _tests of strength and will_ , as Sam liked to call it. So why shouldn’t she be held to that same standard?

“Because I don’t want to,” had been her grumbling argument.

But then Natasha joined in and made the pointed declaration that, “There’s a psycho out there who probably still wants to exploit your brain and harvest pieces of your body _._ You should be ready to fight him by whatever means necessary.” And that had been all it took to get the rest of the team on board.

So, alright, fine… Never mind that the past several weeks had already been filled with tumultuous ups and downs. Never mind that her work was still all consuming and also – quite often – all disheartening. Never mind that she had only _just_ been able to drag herself out of bed consistently every morning and begin again to tread through a _normal_ day. Even with all this, Tessa had been tasked with training four times a week – _four times a week!_ – until she could at least pass the same requirements as the other medical team personnel.

She had assumed – once this edict was passed – that the same contract players who trained the teams to begin with would come in and teach her. She figured she’d be subjected to the same classes and sparring sessions that she half-assed a few years back. She imagined she’d be a little bit sore and – hopefully – a lot more prepared at the end of the typically prescribed 8-week course.

She did _not_ think that her fiancé would insist on taking her down to the sprawling gun range at the edge of the property to teach her how to shoot. Nor did she expect for him to gift her with a 9-millimeter pistol that she obviously had zero intention of ever carrying. She didn’t think she’d have to dodge Widow’s Bites from her friend during surprise attacks in the hall at all hours of the day and night. And she certainly didn’t imagine that Captain America himself would be throwing her – with seemingly all his might – to a too thin mat in front of everyone in the gym in what _felt_ like a vain attempt at proving some sort of point.

“Are you gonna come at me or what?” Steve asks as he slowly circles her. There’s a twinkle in his eye – and a smug, crooked smile pulling at his lips – despite his commanding tone, and something about that scares her more than his stern _Captain_ face ever could.

Tessa pulls in a deep breath, her eyes scanning the few lingering support staff members looming in her periphery. They’d been watching the entire time, not just today, either. It seemed like the audience continued to steadily grow once word got around that Captain Rogers was devoting his time to train someone one on one. And the fact that the _someone_ he’d taken such an interest in was their mysterious, rarely-seen team doctor only seemed to pique their interest more.

“Hey!” Steve grunts before popping her in the shoulder. She winces a bit and frowns at him from behind raised fists. “Focus.”

She rolls her eyes, but stiffens her shoulders just the same before advancing, throwing herself at the super soldier. He easily spins out of the way, grabbing her wrist as he goes and tugging her off balance. She steps out to steady herself, twists in his grip to slip away, and then – “What the hell are you doing?!” sounds from across the gym, pulling Tessa’s attention and causing her to completely drop her guard. The very second her right hand falls from its shielding position, Steve whips a vicious elbow back at her… and directly into her face.

“Oh, jeez!” he issues out with a sharp hiss, turning quickly to see her stumble back and fold in on herself, hands covering her face.

Tony – the owner of the booming and absurdly distracting voice from across the way – jogs quickly over. “Are you out of your mind?” he shouts at Steve. “The brain inside that head you just hit is worth more than all the brawn in your body!”

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells her softly, leaning over to peel her hands away to investigate. He cringes a bit as he sees the blood seeping out from between her fingers.

Tony pulls up alongside them and slaps the Captain’s hands away. “Unhand her, you brute,” he mocks thickly, shooting the man a side-long glare.

Steve just rolls his eyes. “She should have kept her hands up,” he says, arrogant brow raised high.

Tessa pivots to the side and spits a wad of thick blood onto the mat, immediately pulling a disgusted groan from Tony as his hands – which had been pinching her shoulders in an attempt to get her to look up at him – fly up. She glances at Steve, blood staining her teeth a deep crimson, her bottom lip split wide and already swelling. “Your elbow is like a fucking sledgehammer,” she slurs.

“Well,” he issues with a sigh, “maybe now you’ll stop dropping your guard.”

“He distracted me!” she sputters, blood-stained hand flinging in Tony’s direction.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “Believe it or not, there are distractions in the field too.”

Tony pulls a stark white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and gingerly hands it to Tessa, his face still wearing a repulsed grimace. “This whole thing’s ridiculous. Honestly, I don’t know why you agreed to any of this.”

“She agreed because it’s important, Tony.”

He spins around to look at Steve. “She could end any one of us with a wiggle of her fingers.”

“Tony!” Tessa seethes, flashing him a _shut up_ glare. Her eyes tick over towards the group of support team members training in the opposite corner of the gym – none of whom know that she’s a mutant, and none of whom _should_ know.

He rolls his eyes, but immediately stops talking about her powers. “Just… be more careful,” he tells Steve before reaching out and tapping harshly at the back of Tessa’s head. “Precious cargo.”

“You want me to get her a helmet?”

“Yes,” he nods. “That would be great. _Now_ ,” he declares enthusiastically, spinning on a heel to face Tessa. “You are needed in the pressroom.”

She drops the now-soaked handkerchief from her lip and gives him an utterly confounded look. “Me? Now? Why?”

“There’s a press conference in ten minutes, and I need you there.”

Steve steps up, sidling between the two, his chest puffed out in a protective sort of stance. “No media, Tony. We talked about this. She needs to lay low.”

He waves a dismissive hand in the Captain’s face. “Relax, will ya? You think I’d put her on camera looking like this?” He reaches out and delicately pinches Tessa’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, pivoting her face slowly to get a better look at the damage. “You’ve broken my most beautiful employee,” he utters with a sad _tsk tsk_ and a shake of the head. “Well, one of the most beautiful, anyway. Top fifty at least.”

“Such a charmer,” she intones bitterly, cringing as she brings the cloth back up to her split lip. Her brow furrows in both pain and confusion. “Do I even still have teeth?” she muses, running her tongue gingerly along her incisors. “I can’t feel my teeth.”

“I thought you were worried about her brain,” Steve snipes, ignoring Tessa’s mumbled words and pulling the spent handkerchief from her fingers to quickly replace it with a clean towel.

“I am. Can you not tell that she’s concussed? She can’t feel her teeth!” He turns back to Tessa and – instead of mocking her ridiculous state or quipping about her obvious brain damage – he waits silently for her to look up at him. Locking onto her deep green eyes, he says – almost begs – in a tone so utterly sincere, “I need you at this press conference. Off to the side. No one needs to know you’re there. But _I_ need you there.”

Her brows pull even tighter together, an almost comically muddled expression taking over her face. “Why? What’s it about?”

“You’ll see,” he mutters, slapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Just… come to the pressroom. You can hit up medical after. It won’t take long. I promise.” He turns to leave, tossing back over his shoulder as he goes, “I need you to be my emotional support animal. Don’t let me down.”

Steve raises his eyebrows as he watches the man saunter from the gym. “Emotional support animal,” he says, mulling each word over. He looks over at her with a coy grin and mirthful eyes. “Is that a promotion?”

000

“So he just… _proposed_?” Bucky asks from the other room. She can hear the disbelief in his voice, even with his head buried in the freezer as he digs around for an ice pack.

“Yep,” Tessa says brightly, collapsing onto the couch and shifting around, kneeling so that she can lean over the arm to peer into the kitchen. “Leave it to Tony to call a press conference to propose marriage.”

“I didn’t think he even wanted to get to married,” he says, his brow heavily furrowed as he moves back into the living room and over to the sofa.

Tessa shrugs, accepting the towel-wrapped ice pack from him and gingerly pressing it to her swollen lip. “It’s all an act. And he’s completely in love with Pepper.” She drops the pack a bit and pulls up as much of a smile as she can bear. “You should’ve seen the look on his face. He was _terrified_.”

“Yeah, well, proposing is a terrifying thing to do,” he tells her with a quirk of the eyebrow as he flops down next to her.

A thick peal of laughter spills out of her – one that causes his pulse to quicken as he discerns the sincere joy perking at its edges – and she pivots to face him. Her eyes burn bright despite the sudden pain that comes from pulling her bottom lip into a wide smile, the thick split popping apart and leaking blood anew. “You’re full of shit,” she mutters gleefully, the words garbled behind the ice pack and towel.

He shakes his head playfully, his delighted grin faltering just a bit as his gaze drops to her lip. “You have no idea how stressful it is to ask someone to marry you,” he says, reaching out and tenderly swiping the pad of his thumb along the ugly bruise blooming at the corner of her mouth. He pulls away a bit of blood, wipes it on the towel, and cocks his head at her. “Even if that someone once said she could never say no to you.”

Tessa drops the ice pack to her lap and gazes at him with deep, bliss-filled eyes. “I would really like to kiss you right now.”

He chokes on a laugh – “I would really rather you didn’t.” – before letting out a long sigh, his smile slowly fading into a small frown. “I really hope that you’re getting something out of this, baby,” he says, voice deep and melancholy as his eyes track along her marred face. “Because it’s killing me.”

She crawls forward and wraps her arms around his neck. “Oh, poor baby,” she mocks. “I didn’t realize my getting beat up by a super soldier would be so hard on _you_.” He slowly slips both hands beneath her T-shirt, fingers dancing lightly along her back. She lets out a small wince as his metal digits graze her ribs. “Oh, oh,” she mutters. “Back there,” directing his cool touch down her side just a bit.

He leans around and peers up under her shirt at the spot where his fingers lay. There’s a giant blue-and-purple mass of bruises peppering the skin along her ribs. He hisses out as he gently splays his metal hand over the top of the angry wound. “Baby,” he mutters, feeling her fall into his chest as she relaxes into the cold touch. “Jesus.”

She hikes the ice pack back up to her lip, sandwiching it between her face and his shoulder as she rests her head on him. “It’s fine,” she mumbles lowly into his chest.

He blinks harshly and releases a pained sigh. “No. No, it’s not.” Then, his voice loud in her ear as he calls out to the AI – as though she can only hear him if he shouts – “Friday, please tell Captain Rogers that Dr. Sullivan won’t be training for the rest of the week. At least.”

She shifts into him and he responds by sliding down the couch so that she can rest atop him, all the while maintaining the pressure and position of his icy hand. “So dramatic,” she intones sleepily as her body grows heavier in his hold.

“The point of this was to learn how to defend yourself, not to get beat to hell.”

“Maybe I _like_ it,” she intones with a lilt, pulling just the softest huff of a laugh from him. Her sleepy smile slowly fades, the fingers of her left hand moving to trace lazy circles along Bucky’s bicep. “Actually… I sort of do.” Her voice is small, but utterly sincere as she states, “Steve… he’s the only one right now who doesn’t treat me with kid gloves.”

His hand tightens on her back, stiffening sharply, his metal thumb stilling its tender sweep along her mottled skin. A barely perceptible, “Hm,” is all that he responds with.

But really, what else is there to say? She’s right. He’s seen it too. For the past several weeks everyone’s been tiptoeing around her, afraid that something they say might set her off, cause her to spin out and wind up trapped once more in the dark recesses of her mind. In fairness, he understands how annoying it can be to have people treat you like that… like you might break at any moment. But he also stood outside the bathroom door for ten minutes just the other night listening to her bawl in the shower, so…

The cell on the coffee table rings, cutting off Bucky’s winding thoughts and eliciting a deep groan as he reaches out to grab it. Tessa makes a squeak of protest the moment he removes his cool, soothing touch from her back, so he quickly tosses the phone to his right hand and replaces his left on her ribs before answering. “She needs a break,” he announces into the phone in lieu of a greeting.

Steve’s words are skeptical on the other end. “It’s just a split lip. She’s fine. Don’t be so dramatic.”

He rolls his eyes, more than a little annoyed at being called _dramatic_ twice inside of two minutes. “A split lip and bruised ribs,” he responds, craning his head around to see her other side as he peels her T-shirt higher. He catches a glimpse of another bruise along her back, long and green, older than the others. His face twists, brow furrowing. “Did you hit her with a baseball bat?”

Tessa snorts a laugh into him, pulling a small smile.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve intones. “Her training today was getting beaten with a bat.”

“Worse,” she mutters, catching his voice through the phone. “A super soldier’s concrete arm.”

“You do know she can’t heal like us,” he tells the Captain, single brow raised. “She needs some time.”

“Put her on the phone,” he demands.

Bucky hits speaker and sets the cell up on the back of the couch. “He wants to talk to you.”

She pivots her head to the side towards the phone. “Steve,” she starts, voice thick with fatigue. “I can’t help it. He’s holding me prisoner. He’s stronger than me. There’s nothing I can do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again, and from Steve’s tone, he’s almost certain his friend is doing the same. “If you need a break, just say so.”

She pulls herself up with a groan, sitting back onto her heels. “No,” she whines. “No, I’m fine.”

Bucky looks up at her with a frown. “No, you’re not.”

“I bruise like a peach.”

“Baby, you look like you got the shit beat out of you.”

“Tess,” Steve breathes out. “You don’t need to be a hero. If you need a break – ”

“You’re not going to tell me something like, _there are no breaks in the field_?”

He laughs on the other end. “Well, that is true.”

“She’s taking the rest of the week,” Bucky announces with authority. “I oughta kick your ass for beating on my girl like this.”

“Ha!” she barks out, gazing slyly at her fiancé. “You’re just jealous because his hands have been _all over_ me for the last two weeks.”

He gives her an unamused glare as Steve quickly changes the subject on the other end. “You hear about Tony and Pepper?”

“Duh,” Tessa mutters, pressing the ice pack back in place. “I was there.”

She can almost _feel_ his disappointed glare when he replies, “I was talking to Bucky.”

“Yeah, I heard,” he answers with a chuckle.

“Think he’s trying to show you up?”

“ _Psh_. Let him.”

Tessa lays back down on Bucky’s chest, curling close as she says, “I think I might be more excited about their wedding than my own.”

“Really?” Bucky intones, his fingers diving into her hair.

“Tony will spare no expense.”

“It’s true,” Steve mentions. “Probably be the best food you’ll ever have. I say _you_ because I think I’m probably off the guest list at this point.”

Tessa pops up her head, chin pressed into Bucky’s sternum. “I wonder if I could worm my way into the wedding party. I bet I’d get a gold-plated Mercedes as a bridesmaid’s gift.”

“What’s a bridesmaid’s gift?” Bucky asks with wrinkled brow.

“It’s gift you give to your bridesmaids,” she replies as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well,” Steve starts. “I, for one, think your wedding will be the best – if it ever actually happens.”

“Hilarious,” Bucky bleats.

“I mean, look who you have to perform the ceremony.”

“How’s that coming, by the way?” Tessa asks. “You got all of the vows figured out?”

“Aren’t you writing your own vows?” he asks incredulously.

“I don’t have time for that,” she protests, snuggling deeper into Bucky’s chest. “Besides, I’d just end up quoting other people anyway.”

Bucky pulls in a long, deep breath and begins – in an airy, put-on voice, “Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam…”

She starts suddenly, pulling up and away from him, digging her elbows into his ribs, her mouth agape as she looks down at him in awe. “Did you just quote _The Princess Bride_ to me?” He gives her a sly wink, wide smirk on his face. And she lightly shakes her head, her expression positively beaming. “I have never loved you more than I do right now.”

“Alright,” Steve chimes quickly. “I’m afraid this might be going somewhere, so I’m going to hang up now. Tessa, you’re free for the rest of the week,” he says, disconnecting before either of them even have the chance to say goodbye.

“You know where this _should_ be going,” Bucky starts, tossing the phone back onto the coffee table. He lazily runs his fingers through her hair as she settles back into his chest.

Her eyes drift shut as she takes in the steady _thump-thump_ of his heart beneath her ear. “Hm?” she hums softly. “To the bedroom?”

“No,” he chuckles. “Well, yes. Because you’re obviously exhausted and should go to bed.”

Her eyes fly open and she props her chin on his sternum again to look him in the eye. “I was promised fettuccini,” she intones, accusing eyebrow raised high. “And I’m not going anywhere until I get it.”

He lets out a bark of a laugh and gives her a gentle shove, rolling her off to the side so he can rise from the couch. “Fine. Fettuccini,” he says, still laughing as he makes his way into the kitchen.

She curls into the back of the sofa for no more than a minute or two before lazily – _pathetically_ – pulling herself up with a groan. Every single part of her body hurts. From her head – where’s Steve’s rock-hard elbow had rattled her brain – to her toes – which hadn’t been made to bounce and step-pivot this much _ever_.

But she wasn’t lying before when she said she liked it. Even the pain… there’s something about this pain. This _physical_ pain. It’s different. It’s a welcome distraction. Because this pain is… _real_.

For the past several weeks – far longer, really – her pain has been an obscure entity, lurking in the deep recesses of her mind. It waits for her to relax enough to start to feel okay, start to feel like she can breathe and think and function again. Then it bubbles up and spews forth, surprising her every time with its sheer strength as it wraps itself around her, holding her in a vice grip.

As odd as it sounds, it’s nice – for a change – to have a physical ache run through her body. Something that she can actually understand and identify. Something that she can discern the cause of. Something she can anticipate.

Something that she _knows_ will heal.

She slides into one of the stools at the breakfast bar and watches Bucky set a pot of water to boil. “What were you going to say?” she mutters around the ice pack pressed to her lip. He glances over his shoulder at her, confused scowl on his face. “Where things _should_ go…?”

“Oh, right.” He spins around and leans his back against the counter, arms folding easily over his chest as he gazes at her. “We should probably talk about it. The wedding.”

“Ours or Tony and Pepper’s?”

“Ours,” he replies with a deep eye roll. His gaze flicks away for a brief – albeit uneasy – moment before returning to her. He clears his throat gruffly, stating with a forced-casual shrug, “Even if it’s just to say we want to postpone.” He drops his arms to his sides and slowly steps over to her until the only thing that separates them is the raised counterspace. “I just think it’d be good to make some kind of plan.”

She lowers the ice pack, her thick, swollen lip pudging out even further as a hefty pout takes over her face. “You want to postpone?”

He almost laughs at the childlike disappointment in her tone. “No,” he mutters with a small, crooked smile. “But if you want to…” He swallows thickly, grin melting away. “If you need time… for _you_ , then we should probably wait.”

Her lips press tightly together, brow furrows. “No,” she announces, shaking her head. “No. I think we should do it.” Her eyes widen, breath catching a bit as she says, “Actually, we might want to talk about moving it up.”

He cocks his head suspiciously… no, _eagerly_. “Really?”

The deep green of her eyes darkens just a bit as she admits, “I read an article the other day… They’re gonna mandate testing for the X-gene in New York… include it in standard bloodwork on newborns. _And_ in the blood test for getting a marriage license. I don’t know when… they were pushing to have it enacted by the end of the year.” She issues a cavalier shrug – forced indifference oozing from the gesture. “But the blood test itself is already mandatory and… I don’t know… I guess I don’t trust that they won’t just tack on another test on top of the existing ones. Even if it isn’t actually law yet.” Her newly solemn eyes glide away to stare off into the distance. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

He reaches across the breakfast bar and takes hold of her hand, easily prying the felled ice pack from her grip so he can twine his fingers with hers. “I don’t think you’re being paranoid. And I definitely don’t want to do anything that could put you in danger of being found out.”

“Massachusetts doesn’t require blood tests,” she offers, desperately trying to lighten her tone. “We could get married in Boston?”

“I’ve never been.”

“Really?”

He gives a quick shrug before turning back to the now boiling pot of water. “Whatever you want to do, baby,” he tosses over his shoulder as he slowly dumps the noodles in. “Wherever you wanna go, I’m there.”

“Yeah, but I want you to _want_ to go there too,” she argues. He grabs some things from the fridge – butter and a block of parmesan – and deposits them onto the counter before spinning around to face her. “ _James_ ,” she very nearly chides, “you cannot expect me to make this decision by myself.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “I’ll do some looking too. See what’s out there.” He turns back around and starts grating cheese into a bowl. “Boston,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“Or… wherever.” She repositions the ice pack on her lip, raising her voice a bit to speak around it. “Just someplace where we’ll actually be allowed to get a marriage license.”

His grating stops, shoulders pulling tight. _Allowed_. “Yeah,” he breathes out, shaking his head to get rid of the bitter, angry thoughts that word instills. “Somewhere we’re _allowed_.”


	32. The Beginning of the End

“Department H?” Tessa wrinkles her nose for just a fraction of a second before hurriedly issuing out, “Nope, never heard of them.” She pivots away from the large TV on the wall, eyes ticking towards the computer on her desk as it continues to ding for her attention.

“I’m sorry,” Steve utters sarcastically through the television. “Am I keeping you from more important things?”

She clicks through the new email, downloading the attachments as she mumbles, “Usually,” a bit too loudly to be just for herself.

He shakes his head slowly, biting back a chuckle as he watches her work. Steve’s never actually been to her office in the city, and this is first time they’ve video-conferenced, so he can’t help but snoop around a bit. Not that he can see much with the camera directed towards such a small section of the room. But… “Do you have a picture of me on your desk?” he asks, his voice carrying both surprise and a hint of cloying amusement.

“Uh…” Her head whips around, searching for whatever it is that he noticed. She spots a framed shot of the two of them from a few years back – laughing in the common room at the Tower – positioned at the far corner of her desk. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Did you not _know_?”

She finally looks up at him – though only for the brief moment it takes for her files to finish downloading. “I didn’t decorate in here. I’m still finding things that Pepper did.”

“Yeah, but… it’s on your desk…”

“Along with a million other things.” She scrolls quickly through the newest report from Seattle, allowing herself just _one more minute_ to scan over the data compiled by her team.

Steve watches silently as her brows pull tightly together, a deep frown tugging at her features. “Something wrong?”

She offers an absent, “Hm?” as her eyes continue to jog through the report.

_Wrong._ Yes, so much of this is wrong. But none of it is a surprise. With Vargas taking over almost all of the day-to-day on the X-Gene Inhibitor Project – the _cure_ , she thinks bitterly – the team seems to be getting closer. Based on what she already knows from previous – well-hidden – research, Tessa can tell that they’re moving in the _right_ direction. Which is so very, very _wrong._

“No,” she mutters, a dejected quality to her voice as she flips off the computer screen – out of sight, out of mind – and turns bodily back to the man on the wall. “Sorry.”

“If you need to go, we can do this later,” Steve offers from his baby blue office back at home. “Are you coming back to the compound tonight?”

A long, deep sigh slips from her lips – “I don’t know yet.” – and she shoves her glasses up into hair, rubbing furiously at her tired eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve got time. You have my undivided attention.”

The moment the words leave her mouth, there’s a soft, yet strident knocking at her door. “Dr. Sullivan?” Peter’s hesitant voice sounds from the other side.

She throws up a _just one minute_ finger for Steve, pivoting away before catching his aggravated sigh. “Come in, Peter,” she calls out to the boy behind the door.

He barely steps into the office, just leans precariously in the doorway, craning his head to find her behind her desk. “Dr. Sullivan… sorry to interrupt. I – ” He stops suddenly, his mouth gaping for just a split second before he utters, “Holy crap, you’re talking to Captain America.”

“Yeah.” She snickers a bit and glances back at Steve, taking in that almost shy smile that always seems to take over when he’s faced with fans. “You wanna say hi?”

“Hi?” A deep blush begins to burn at his cheeks, but it doesn’t stop him from stepping fully into the room, gently kicking the door shut behind him. He awkwardly tugs at his T-shirt to straighten it, swipes at his hair as though fixing errant pieces, and meanders over to her desk. “I mean…I don’t want to interrupt…”

“Steve, this is Peter. Peter, Steve. Or _Captain America_ ,” she utters with a thick, put-on drawl.

“Steve’s fine,” the man on the screen says. “And it’s nice to meet you Peter. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The kid’s eyes blow wide, words escaping him for a moment as all that comes out of his mouth are sharp raps of breath. “You… you have?”

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles. “Between Tony and Tessa, I feel like you’re – ”

“The _bees knees_?” she interjects smartly. “The _cat’s meow_?”

He rolls his eyes thickly and turns back to Peter. “She just _loves_ to make fun of my age.” Then, glancing back at Tessa, “But who’s the _old man_ who kicked your ass sparring yesterday?”

She drops a very unladylike snort. “First of all, don’t say _ass_ in front of the kid. You have a certain reputation to uphold.” An annoyed – yet obviously amused – expression takes over his face. “And B, _everyone_ I spar with kicks my ass. Don’t let your ego grow any bigger than it is already.” She spins in her oversized chair to face Peter. “We recently had to widen all the doorways at the compound so his head would fit through.”

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpans from behind.

“This,” Peter gushes, a smile pulling so wide it has to hurt. “This is amazing.” He looks to Tessa, keeping the Captain steadily in his periphery as though the man might disappear if he looks away entirely. “You’re just… talking to Captain America. And… giving him _shit_. This is amazing!”

“ _This_ ,” Steve starts, judgey eyebrow raised high, “is exactly how she always is.”

“Hm,” she nods. “Giving shit and taking names. That’s me.”

“Well,” Peter starts, side stepping Tessa and moving to stand directly in front of the TV. “It’s just… it’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Steve,” he corrects with a lilt.

“Yeah. Yeah. It’s an honor to meet you, Steve.” Peter pivots back around to face Tessa, pure elation playing out on his features as he whispers to her, “I called him _Steve_!”

“I know,” she says with a grin of her own as she pulls herself upright in her chair. There’s a swift grimace that hits her when she shifts out of the slouch, most likely from the monster bruise Steve left on her back the other day. “What did you need, Peter?”

A look of utter confusion washes over him –  “I… what?” – before he remembers that he’s not actually here for a meet and greet with superheroes. He’s here to, well, work. “Oh, right! Sorry. Yeah.” He fidgets his way back out from behind her desk, apologizing a few more times under his breath as he goes. “Sorry. I just wanted to let you know that those _tests_ ,” he hesitates briefly, his eyes flickering towards the man on the screen, unsure if he can – or should – give any details in front of him. “They’re back.”

Her brows rise in genuine interest. “How’d they look?”

“Well,” he breathes out. “I guess I don’t really know.” His nose crinkles in thought as his identic memory brings up the reports he had spent the past hour trying to decode. “I want to say they look… good?”

She doesn’t want to laugh at the kid, but his confounded expression is just too damn precious to allow her to hold in the building chuckle. “Okay,” she says lightly, bright and genuine smile perking her lips. “Just let me finish up here and I’ll come down to the lab to go over them with you.”

“Thanks, Dr. Sullivan,” he says with a relieved nod. “Thank you.” Then, looking back up at the screen – and at the still rather amused looking man on it – he offers a painfully polite, “It really was great to meet you, sir,” before wincing and hurriedly issuing out, “Steve! Great to meet you, _Steve_.”

“You too, kid,” he offers as Peter disappears from his limited field of vision. He hears the door shut and connects eyes with Tessa once she turns back to him. “I can you fill you in later,” he says with a soft sort of authority. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full there.”

She nods swiftly. “The details, sure. But…” Her countenance changes, slowly morphing into a grave look of introspection. “You really haven’t found anything on them? Still?”

Steve sighs, a frown that matches the tone and tenor of her inquiry blooming on his face. “This Department H stuff… it looks like they were overseeing Weapon X. Good call,” he mentions, offering her a nod of thanks. “If we hadn’t gone back to look into that program – into Sublime – we might not have found out about this secret sector of the Canadian government.”

“So Sublime was a part of it?” she asks, brows suddenly twisting together.

He shakes his head. “Not exactly. At least we haven’t found much about him yet. From what we’ve deciphered so far… Weapon X was a military program. Top secret. Not sure how much Department H even really knew about what happened with it, but they were still tasked with oversight because the program involved mutants. And, well… that was their domain.”

“Their _domain_? So you’re saying that Canada had a department dedicated to keeping tabs on mutants _decades ago_?”

He nods. “Looks that way. We haven’t been able to determine exactly how long they were around, but there’s a _ton_ of intel buried in their archives. Some of it looks like it might’ve come from SHIELD.” He shakes his head bitterly, holding back the curse he aches to spit out. “Or Hydra.”

“You’re talking past tense,” she points out, eyes narrowing in thought. “This department is defunct?”

Another short nod. “Officially, anyway. The archives stop in the 90s.” He pulls in a long, deep breath. “According to _official_ reports, they were shut down due to budget cuts in ’98. Of course, those reports also claimed that their purpose was to provide job securement for military veterans.” He offers a vague shrug. “Canada claims that the new mutant registry is being compiled and monitored by their Department of Public Safety. But for decades they had a whole division dedicated to this same sort of thing.”

“You think they’re going to start it up again?”

“If they ever _really_ shut it down in the first place…” He nervously bites at the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. Nat’s still sifting through the archives now. And Vision’s doing whatever he does to – I don’t know – search the _world’s databases_ for mentions of Department H. Hopefully they’ll find something.” His gaze drifts away as though it actually pains him to look her in the eye when he says, “But as of right now, no, we still have nothing on Lobe or Scofield.”

“Great,” she mutters sarcastically, dropping back into a defeated slump.

“Atkinson is still in Toronto. She made a few contacts that she’s going to keep working for a bit. Might lead to something.”

“Atkinson,” she breathes out, rolling the name precariously over her tongue. “What do we think about her?”

Steve lets out a light laugh. “Well, _I_ think she’s a little scared of you.”

“Please,” she bites out with a thick _psh_. Then, with a single suspicious eyebrow raised and a conspiratorial note to her tone, she declares, “I think she’s after my man.”

Now the laugh that rolls out of the blond is more of a loud, barking guffaw. “Oh, she definitely wants your man,” he spurts out. “God only knows why.”

A comical frown pulls at her features. “I don’t like when you say it. _My man._ It’s weird.” She lets out a long, exhausted-sounding sigh and locks onto his eyes with a somber gaze. “You trust her?” she asks sincerely.

“Yeah,” he tells her, crooked smile still playing on his face as he tamps down the laughter. “Yeah, Tess, I do. And for what it’s worth – not that I should have to tell you this – but you’ve got nothing to worry about. With Bucky, I mean.”

She ducks her head, voice small when she utters, “I know.”

“He loves you like crazy.” He scoots in his chair, pulling himself closer to the cam on his desk, and leans in to say, a soft and utterly genuine tone curling about the words, “You are _everything_ to him.”

The side of her mouth quirks up into an almost bashful grin. “Yeah, well…” And she looks back up at him, connecting with his earnest gaze. “As long as you trust her, that’s good enough for me.” She lets out a deep groan as she pulls herself awkwardly from her chair. “Guess I better go teach the next generation how to _science_.”

000

“We don’t know that,” Steve argues, temper starting to flare. “Just because they’re _building_ something doesn’t mean – ”

“ _Look_ at the plans, Steve” Nat interjects. She quickly pulls up the multitude of electronic blueprints they discovered – days of searching through Department H’s archives and hacking into the supposedly obsolete mainframe finally yielding something more than just decades-old surveillance. She waves a wide, arcing arm out to indicate the building plans now cluttering the holoscreen between them. “They were shut down in ’98, and yet they’re secretly building some kind of sprawling complex… on land that was given to them by the National Defense Department five months ago?” Her voice reeks of disbelief when she asks him, “What the hell do you think they’re going to do with that place?”

“I don’t know,” he utters, frustration leadening the words. “ _We_ don’t know.”

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky scoffs. He raises a pointed finger at the blueprints along the corner of the screen. “Those are cells –”

“Rooms,” he corrects.

Natasha follows with, “Rooms that are designed with enough reinforcement to contain, well, him.” She points at Bruce, who’s still pacing in the corner, more than a bit confused as to why he was called up for this debrief in the first place.

“That doesn’t mean it’s… what? A prison? Or… We don’t know what it is,” he issues out in a huff. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“It _is_ a prison,” Bucky argues. “The only question is what they plan to do with it. Is this a place where they’ll be able to keep _criminals_ who are enhanced? A place designed to keep the world safe from a possible threat?” He takes a purposeful step forward, leveling his friend with a calculating stare. “Or is it a place to house enhanced _people_? Not criminals.”

“Why?” Steve asks, a terribly weary note to his voice. “To what end?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Natasha steps around the table – carefully avoiding the eerily silent Vision as she goes – so she can look the Captain in the eye. “If Canada wanted to build just another prison, they wouldn’t have a secret, supposedly defunct department do it in an undisclosed manner on land that is still officially allocated for use as an Air Force training ground. Steve… nothing about this adds up to anything good.”

“I’m not saying I disagree,” he tries, an exasperated quality to his tone. “I just don’t want us to jump to any conclusions. We’re talking about the Canadian government here. Not some arms dealer in Nigeria or drug cartel in Mexico… or even an alien army from outer space. This isn’t a fight we can just take on without a second thought. We can’t go accusing a world power of something – ”

The door to the conference room suddenly flies open and slams into the wall as Tony charges in, grabbing the remote off the table as he goes. He quickly flicks off the holoscreen and instead turns on the giant TV at the other end of the room. “Have you seen this?” he asks.

Everyone’s attention turns to the news reporter. _“… passed in an almost unanimous decision. Many states already have registration laws on the books. But this new federal law will allow for greater enforcement of registration guidelines, and it will provide a nation-wide database to keep track of mutants and other enhanced individuals._ ”

“The bastards did it,” Tony mutters, dropping the remote with a thick clatter. He points angrily back up at the television. “They’re also talking about instituting mandatory blood tests – nationwide – to test for the X-gene. _Fucking_ Ross was just on CNN, laying out the plan.”

Natasha pulls in a sharp breath and asks, almost to herself, “And what are they going to do with the information from that database?” She steels her posture and turns to the group, looks Steve dead in the eye. “I know you don’t want to believe this,” she says to him, “but Department H – the same sector of Canada’s government that oversaw the military’s Weapon X program – is building a top-secret compound with hundreds of reinforced _rooms_ , tactical training facilities, and state-of-the-art labs. We know, from the most recent files decrypted, that they have access to Canada’s mutant registry.”

“And they may gain access to ours as well,” Vision interjects blithely, his vague expression unchanging. “Top Canadian officials have been meeting with the biggest proponents of the United States registry bill for months now.” He glances up to see Tony’s stunned face. “Including Secretary Ross. They are working together.”

Bruce reluctantly speaks up from his corner. “They’re telling the public that this registry is for their own good, for safety. Having everyone with potentially dangerous powers on file makes it easy to keep an eye on them, to keep them from hurting any unsuspecting people.” He shifts uncomfortably and lets out a long sigh before finally turning to face the solemn group. “But think of what they could actually do with that information. Think of the kinds of… weapons they’ll have access to.”

“You don’t have a lot of faith in our government,” Steve states lowly, a measure of distrust permeating even his words.

“You do?” he counters. “Who in this room hasn’t been experimented on, or brainwashed, or enhanced, or _hunted_ by an organization with ties to the government of a major world power.”

Tony raises his hand. “Well, technically,” he says simply. “But, point taken. Yes. I think we can all agree that…” he looks around the room, quickly noticing that they’re suddenly a man short. “Hey, where’s Sergeant Thick Thighs?”

000

When he walks into their apartment, he sees that Tessa’s already in the know. Poised on the very edge of the sofa cushion, she sits, staring at the talking heads on the television. “ _This is a win for the American people_ ,” one says.

“ _It’s an absolute violation of civil rights_ ,” says another. “ _Registration today, gas chambers tomorrow_.”

“ _Civil rights? You act like these are just ordinary people and not potential weapons of mass destruction. Look at Vienna! Look at_ –”

She jumps up when the television goes black, immediately on guard. “You scared me,” she says meekly when she sees Bucky holding the remote.

“I’m sorry.” She drops her gaze to the floor, shakes her head absently, and lets out an odd laugh mixed with a deep sob. He moves closer and gathers her in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he repeats into her hair. He wants to tell her not to worry, it’ll all be fine, everything will be okay. But all that comes out is, “Sorry,” over and over in a small, desperate whisper.

She pushes away suddenly, wipes her eyes with the heels of her hands as her wet hair falls in her face. This is the first night she’s managed to make it home from the city all week, and they both had grand plans that involved frozen pizza and Netflix… and whatever their hands led them to as they camped out on the couch. But not two minutes after stepping out of the shower, she received a frantic text from Tony telling her to turn on the news. And now…

“It’s fine,” she states, backing away from him and pressing her lips into a firm line. “We knew this would happen.”

He nods. “Yeah,” he agrees solemnly.

She begins to pace, a deep, burning sort of energy bubbling in her gut and buzzing along her limbs. The fiery tingle is so intense that she has to shake out her hands as she moves to dispel it. “You know there’s a bill proposed in California right now,” she mutters, words rushing angrily from her lips. “Anyone with the X-gene will be required to be on state-sanctioned birth control. Their thinking was that forced sterilization would get shot down. But prolonged chemical birth control, well, that’s not so bad, right?” Her face begins to burn a bright red as she spins around and stares at him from across the room. “Do you want kids? Ever, I mean? Even as a… a possibility? Because if so, you should probably find someone else.”

“Tessa,” he breathes out before being interrupted.

“Arizona just passed legislation prohibiting anyone on their registry from legally marrying a human.” She snorts out an incredulous laugh. “ _Human_. A non-mutant. But they said _human_. Which means I’m not. I’m not even a human being. In Arizona.”

He drops down onto the couch, runs his hands over face, stopping to dig the heels into his eyes. “You’re a human being,” he says into his open palms.

“You think I don’t know that?” she shouts at him. “I’ve spent years mapping the X-gene. At the very least, as a geneticist I’m able to see that our chromosomes are human! If… if anything we’re… I’m… we’re just evolutionarily superior humans! _Better_ than an average human. Built to survive. I am the next step in human evolution. I am… we are… we’re supposed to outlive all of you!”

He looks up at her as she steadily paces, sees her wild eyes, fingers now tangled up in her hair, tugging at the wet curls. He jumps up and takes two large strides until he’s in front of her. “Stop it,” he says a little too harshly, grabbing her hands and digging her fingers from her locks. Some of the hair comes away in damp clumps, but she doesn’t seem to notice. He lowers her hands to her sides, gently grasping her wrists. “Look at me,” he orders.

“It isn’t fair,” she whimpers, turning her face away from him. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” He lets go of her wrists and brings his hands up to cup her face, turning it to him. She closes her eyes, still refusing to look at him. “I’m so sorry,” she says, dropping her head down.

Tears seep from her still shut eyes and fall down her face, and he gently thumbs them from her cheeks. She leans into his metal hand, nuzzles the cool palm, presses into the cold fingertips. He can’t feel much with the hand, but he can sense temperature, and he feels that her face is hot, almost feverish. That’s how worked up she’s gotten.

“Look at me,” he says again, this time softer, more pleading. And she blinks a few times before finally meeting his eyes. “You’re right. This isn’t fair. And you did nothing wrong.” He gives her a weak smile. “And you have nothing to apologize for.”

She shuts her eyes again and shakes her head before dropping it to his shoulder. His hands fall to rub soothing lines up and down her upper arms. “I made you fall in love with me,” she mumbles into him.

He barks out a laugh –  “Made me?” – and wraps his arms around her, hers loosely draping around his lower back as she leans into him. “I’m pretty sure I had a choice,” he tells her, knowing full well that he did not.

“No,” she says, a small lilt to her voice. “It’s one of my powers.”

“Oh really? You never told me about that one.” He feels her chuckle just the tiniest bit against him. “I love you,” he says, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Doesn’t matter how it happened. It happened. And I’m never letting you go.” His shirt is wet from her hair. And her tears. And he’s pretty sure that some of her hair is caught between the plates of his metal hand again. He uses his other hand to try and pick them out, strand by strand, as his body supports her weight.

Her lids slowly drift shut, but no matter how tired she may be right now, she’s honestly not sure that she’ll ever be able to sleep again. Somehow she just knows that this is the beginning of the end. As safe as she feels in this moment – in Bucky’s arms, in the Avengers’ compound – there’s a fear burning deep within her chest. More than a fear… an awful certainty.  

He hears her sniffle and feels the tears start up again, and he begins to rock back and forth slightly as he picks the last of her tangled hair out from between the plates. He lowers the now-free metal hand to the small of her back while the other one sweeps down her face. Leaning back a bit, he raises her chin with his finger, looks down into her glassy eyes, and says, “I don’t give a shit what people from Arizona say. I’m going to marry you. And if we decide to have kids together, we’ll have kids together.”

She sniffles once and lays her head back onto his shoulder. “Not in California.”

“I never wanted to live in California anyway.” They continue like that for several long minutes, slowly swaying in each other’s arms, nothing more than their own heady breaths breaking through the surrounding silence. “C’mon,” he says finally, pulling away and taking hold of her hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

She follows him closely down the hall, one hand in his, the other wrapped around his forearm. “It’s still early,” she mutters, noting the sunlight streaming into their bedroom through the window.

“Friday, drop the shades,” he says as he leads her to the bed. The blackout shades fall down through the window frame, transforming the sunny evening to dark night. There’s only the soft glow from the bedside lamp now lighting the room.

They crawl into bed together and he kicks off his boots, noting for the first time that she’s wearing nothing but a thin cotton robe, realizing she must’ve _just_ gotten out of the shower when the news broke. They lay facing each other, close enough that she’s able to grasp his shirt with both of her hands, holding tightly to him in whatever way she can.

She scoots closer to him and he rests his forehead on hers. She’s still hot. “You’re warm,” he says, bringing the metal hand up to her face. She lets go of his shirt and grasps his arm with both hands, pressing the cold metal down into her cheek. He brushes his fingers along her temple, traces the mostly dried tear tracks with his thumb, wishing all the while that he could feel more than just her temperature with the hand. “Are you getting sick?”

She shrugs. 

“You want me to get a cool cloth?” he offers.

“No,” she shakes her head, still holding his hand to her face. “This is good.”

He watches her closely as her eyes shut and her face relaxes… and she finally begins to drift off.

If she was still feverish in the morning, he’d call Bruce. But in the meantime, he wasn’t going to leave her side. He was glad that he’d managed to stay calm for her earlier. She had every right and every reason to freak out about this new legislation. Hell, on the inside, he was freaking out too.

What if she does end up on the registry? And what if someone with more knowledge about mutant history – like someone from the mysterious Department H – sees that registry? What if they figure out who she really is, and what she’s actually capable of? What if they come after her? What if they find her… steal her away… use her for whatever new _project_ they so obviously are planning up in Manitoba?

He closes his eyes tightly, willing those thoughts away. He wouldn’t _ever_ allow her to be used like that, like Hydra had used him. He would burn down the whole world to keep that from happening.

But even if they never find out _who_ she is, it won’t be hard for them to find out _what_ she is. Not now. Not when certain states already have laws on the books that allow genetic testing with a court order. Not when the blood test to get a marriage license requires it as well.

One gene. One mutated gene buried deep within her DNA. If they find that gene, she’ll officially be on a watchlist. She’ll – legally – be _other_ than human. What if they _aren’t_ allowed to marry. Or have children?

He still sometimes doubts that those things – marriage, children, a family – are even really possible for him at all. But if there’s one thing he definitely doesn’t doubt, it’s the fact that he’ll _never_ be able to be without Tessa. He’d give up everything for her.

If things kept up like this, he might have to.

They could retire from the Avengers – he wouldn’t be too heartbroken to give up the superhero life anyway. He’d had enough of war and spies and international intrigue. They could go somewhere more welcoming, like Germany or Switzerland. Okay, maybe not those two. He was still a WWII vet, after all.

But somewhere… somewhere that would _allow_ them to be together. To be happy. To just _be_.

Maybe they’ll elope tomorrow. He’ll cart her off to the courthouse – one in Boston perhaps – and make an honest woman of her, marry her. Before anyone can tell them that they can’t.

He gazes at her sleeping face for a moment before leaning over her and flipping off the bedside lamp. He places a kiss on her forehead before laying back down beside her. Still warm. If she’s still warm in the morning, he’ll call Bruce. _Then_ he’ll drag her down to the courthouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I'll be out of the country for work over the next few weeks, so there may not be updates for just a _little _bit. But I hope you're all into it so far... let me know what you think!__


	33. Heading to Paradise

Bucky groans softly as he rolls over in bed only to find a cold, empty, crumpled mass of sheets by his side in place of his fiancée. His eyes slowly blink open and he peers at the clock on the bedside table. 5:12 AM. Small sounds of tinkering filter in through the cracked-open door and he strains his ears to make them out. The coffee maker burbling. The refrigerator door popping shut. The quick pit-pat of fingertips dancing over a keyboard.

He lies in bed for a few more minutes, staring absently at the ceiling in the still-dark room as yesterday’s events slowly bubble up to the surface. Lobe’s still out there… somewhere. The Canadian government is making _plans_. Ross and others in the US are seemingly in cahoots with them. The mutant registry is actually happening.  

“Friday,” he mumbles tiredly. “Open the shades.”

The thick, blackout shades that had been lowered all night – blocking the late evening sunset along with this morning’s just-beginning sunrise – slowly disappear, filling the room with a soft, warm glow. Bucky rises slowly, lingering at the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees as he thinks about how to face today. And how to face the rest of their days.

Then he hears a soft, yet sharp _crack-splat_ coming from the kitchen… followed by another. And a tender smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

He doesn’t bother to change clothes, stepping out into the hall in the same pair of jeans and T-shirt he had on when they snuck into bed the night before. He quickly swipes at his hair to get it to _mostly_ lay down in the back, the front being swiftly tucked behind his ears. “You making eggs?” he asks casually as he looms in the doorway of the kitchen.

Tessa glances back at him from her spot in front of the stove – spatula in one hand, steaming cup of coffee poised in the other. “Eggs, toast, and coffee,” she mutters. “The trifecta.”

He smiles crookedly as he pads over to her on socked feet. “My favorite meal you make,” he breathes out, wrapping his arms around her middle as she turns back to the stove.

“Not many other choices there,” she says blandly, bringing the coffee cup to her lips.

He gets a quick whiff of the thick, dark liquid and feels his arms unravel as he almost unconsciously pivots away from her and towards the coffee pot. “You have other talents,” he reminds her as he pours himself a cup and leans his hip into the counter.

“Hm.” The nearly silent mumble is her only reply.

He watches her for a long moment as she uses the spatula to shift the scrambling eggs around the pan on the stove. She looks tired, worn out. Sad. “Stop staring at me.” Perhaps a bit angry.

He shrugs casually and glances quickly at the clock on the wall. “It’s early,” he states simply before sipping at his coffee.

“Well, _somebody_ put me to bed pretty damn early.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a crooked smile. “Yeah, well, _nobody_ forced you to go to sleep. You were just that tired.” He sidles closer and reaches around her to flip off the stove as she pulls the pan from the burner. “You still look exhausted.”

She dumps the eggs all onto a single plate and grabs two forks from the drawer to her left. “You always know just what to say.”

When she leans across him to grab the just-popped toast from the toaster, he swiftly sets down his mug and plasters the back of his hand to her forehead. She rolls her eyes as he shifts his hand, tracing his fingers down her temple, her cheek, before she pulls away from him entirely. “You still feel warm,” he mumbles with a frown.

“No I don’t,” she argues, haphazardly swiping butter onto the bread.

“You calling me a liar?”

The toast hits the plate with a dull thud and she pivots to look up at him, expression unreadable. “Yes.”

“Baby,” he starts, quickly getting silenced by her threatening stare.

“Don’t _baby_ me,” she warns, picking up the plate and taking it into the living room. “Sometimes I think you want me to get sick just so you can say _I told you so_.”

He grabs his coffee and follows hot on her heels, watches as she drops heavily onto the couch, balancing the plate of eggs and toast on a pillow in the middle before she positions her laptop upon her folded bare legs. “I’m not the _told you so_ one… that’s Steve,” he argues, frown still pulling at his features as he looks down at her.

“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t so much as spare him a glance, just reaches out to grab a piece toast and gnaws on the corner of it as she directs all her attention to the screen in front of her.

“If you have a fever,” he tries again, absently nudging the cat away as he begins to twist and turn around his ankles.

“I don’t have a fever,” she interrupts with a huff. “I’m not sick. I’m not _getting_ sick. I’m not _exhausted_. What I am, is busy.” She removes her eyes from the computer just long enough to look up at him with a single raised brow. “And a little annoyed.”

“Fine,” he murmurs, an obvious petulance to his tone as he steps around her and plops onto the opposite end of the couch. Eddie jumps up beside him and makes a beeline for the eggs, giving a startled and bitter mewl when Bucky bats him away. “Just so you know, if you actually are sick… this time I am saying _I told you so_.”

“Noted.”

He grabs one of the forks and piles it high with scrambled eggs. “What are you doing anyway?” he asks, mouth full as he immediately goes back for another forkful.

She glances up at him from over the top of the computer screen, an amused glint visible in her eye, even through the screen’s reflection on her glasses. “Hungry?” she teases with a crooked smile.

He shovels more food into his mouth, reaching out for a piece of toast. “Apparently,” he mumbles after a giant swallow. He thinks back to the night before, remembers that they went to bed before having dinner. Then he glances down at the nearly full plate between them. “You’re not?”

“I told you,” she says, eyes pinging back to her laptop. “I’m busy.”

He pulls the piece of toast in his hand into two pieces and leans over to shove one of them into her mouth. She snorts out a laugh, but parts her lips just the same, nipping at his fingertip before he gets the chance to pull away. “Ow,” he mutters, before popping the rest of the buttered bread into his mouth, picking up his coffee and relaxing back into the couch cushions. “You’re working at five AM?” he asks, trying to cover the aggravation he feels with a forced casual tone.

“No,” she states simply.

His brows pull sharply together. “Then what are you doing?”

Just then, her cell dings and she reaches out to grab it off the arm of the couch, reading the text quickly before furiously typing a response.

“Who’s texting you this early?” She ignores him for a long moment, staring at the phone in her hand, presumably waiting for a reply. “Doll?”

“Hm?” she utters, finally looking up at him.

“Who – ”

“Tony,” she shoots out, answering his previous question before diving back into another text.

“Why?”

“I wanted to run something past him,” she mutters absently.

“So you woke him up at five in the morning?”

She shrugs – “He’s usually up anyway.” – and drops the phone to her lap. “He’s just gotta make a couple of phone calls and then he thinks we’ll be set.”

“Okay,” he intones, drawing the word out as his brows knit together in confusion. “Set for what?”

“Costa Rica,” she blurts out, shifting around and pivoting the computer screen towards him.

He gives her an utterly perplexed look. “Costa Rica?” He shakes his head. “What about it?”

Her face splits into a comically wide grin as she shoves the computer into his lap. “That’s where we can get married.”

“Okay,” he drawls out again, small smile pulling at his lips as he glances down at the screen and the bright, colorful images flashing on it. “Still confused.”

She shoves her glasses up into her hair and reaches out to retrieve her mug from the coffee table. “All you need is a valid passport and two witnesses. No original birth certificate. No blood tests. And you don’t need to apply for a US marriage license.”

“But it’s still legal?” he asks, brows pulling even tighter together as he looks up at her.

She nods, widening her eyes as she reaches over and taps on the screen. “And it is _gorgeous_ there.”

It’s obvious that he’s still rather perplexed and she has to remind herself – as she works to bite back a laugh at his puzzled expression, hiding her smirk behind her mug – that he probably hasn’t had enough coffee yet to be fully invested in this conversation. He cocks his head at her, lips parted as he tries to put the pieces together. “So you want to get married… in Costa Rica?”

She takes a quick pull of her sugary coffee and nods. “Unless you don’t want to. But Tony knows a guy who has a house there – right on the beach. Actually, he says he knows a few people who have vacation homes there, but he’s not sure how he left things with the others the last time they talked.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth slowly ticks up as he watches her ramble on, the barely there glint rapidly growing in her eyes, making the green of her irises shimmer.

“He’s pretty sure that the other guy is in Switzerland with his family now, so the house is probably available. He just has to get ahold of him to check for sure. But if it is…” She doesn’t finish the thought with words, opting instead to suggestively wiggle her eyebrows in an unasked, but so damn easy-to-answer question.

He thinks about it for only a fraction of a second – doesn’t really even need to do that – before blowing out a quick breath and uttering, “When do we leave?”

000

It isn’t easy, of course. Planning a trip for almost a dozen people at the drop of a hat – and building a spur-of-the-moment wedding into that trip – would be a nearly impossible feat for most average people. But Pepper Potts is no average person. Between the almost unlimited budget – because how could Tony ever deny anything to his favorite little lab rat? – and Pep’s magnificent ability to organize just about any sort of soiree, she’s able to pull together what _should be_ a dream wedding within just two days.

The huge house that they line up in Santa Teresa sits right on a sprawling private beach. No surprise, it’s owned by a fellow billionaire that Tony’s done business with. But the owner and his family had no plans to head there for vacation this year, opting instead to ski in the Alps for a few weeks, so the property is open. It’s big enough for everyone to have their own bed (even if a few of them are technically pull-outs) and for a limited amount of privacy when needed. But of course, the plan is for everyone other than Tessa and Bucky to hightail it out of there the morning after the ceremony anyway, leaving the happy couple to spend the rest of the week in paradise on their own.

“I don’t know that _paradise_ is the right word,” Tony smarts from the corner of the kitchen. “Tahiti. Belize.” A thoughtful look washes over his face as he snags a bottle of just chilled champagne from the countertop. “Dubai.”

Pepper laughs softly, still fussing with the proposed menu that needs to be sent to the caterer this morning… well, _yesterday_ morning really. But who’s gonna say no to the amount of cash she’s prepared to pay? “Dubai is _not_ paradise,” she replies simply.

“It’s where you can find the richest people in the world – trust-fund babies looking to blow their load, idiot investors with no clue about where to throw their money…”

“Criminals of the highest order,” she snipes. A sudden _pop_ sounds behind her, causing her to tense and jump before spinning around. “Tony!” she screams, watching as the man begins to pour a newly opened bottle of champagne. “That’s for the wedding!”

He shrugs blithely and saunters over to hand her a glass. Then he takes a swig straight from the bottle himself. “Pre-party party,” he offers, sidling close and wiggling his eyebrows playfully as she shakes her head in a sort of terribly amused disappointment. “You planned all of this. The least you can do is reward yourself with a drink.” He drops his lips down to her ear and whispers, “And maybe some hanky-panky.”

She rolls her eyes, a quick stifled laugh bubbling out of her as she turns back to her laptop and hits _send_ on the menu-containing email. Tony leans heavily into her side, dangling the champagne flute in front of her face. “Fine,” she mutters, reaching up and finally taking the glass. She spins around to face him, coy grin on her face. “I am _mostly_ done.”

He leans back and glares at her with a disbelieving scowl. “Mostly?” He glances around the room, notes the china and crystal sparkling in the corner of the counter. Next to them is the refrigerator that he _knows_ is stocked with enough champagne, liquor, and fresh fruit to keep the guests drunk and sugar high for at least the weekend. He peers out the window at the two men setting up the bar at the far corner of the veranda, working around the few small tables Pepper herself had put out earlier. “What else is there to do?”

She gives a slight shrug as she slowly rises from the stool at the center island. “Well,” she breathes out. “I really feel like I should thank the guy who arranged all of this.”

He cocks his head at her and pulls out a crooked, teasing smile. “Is that me? Am I that guy?”

“You are,” she intones, pressing herself firmly up against him.

“Hm.” His forehead crinkles in thought, champagne bottle still hanging from his right hand as he circles both arms around her waist. “I don’t think I really _arranged_ much. Pretty sure my CEO took care of most of it.”

She chuckles lightly, pulling back just enough to be able to look him in the eye. “You really are doing a wonderful thing here, Tony. I _know_ Tessa and James are just so grateful for your help.”

“ _Psh_ ,” he lets out carelessly. “ _James_ … like any of this has anything to do with him.”

“No, of course not,” she mutters sarcastically. “It’s just his _wedding_.”

“Yeah, but it’s not about _him_.”

“I know,” she replies, giving him a slight shove so he releases her. She turns around to shut down her computer and pack it away. “But the fact that you did all of this for Tessa even though you don’t particularly care for her groom, that says something about what kind of friend you are.” She spins back around and shows off a soft, sincere smile. “I’m proud of you, Tony.”

“Proud?” His free hand flies up to the center of his chest, expression of mock hurt and betrayal flooding his face. “You say that like you’re surprised I’m such a good friend.”

“Not at all,” she breathes out with a soft laugh before reaching out and pulling his hand into hers. “I’m sorry if it sounded that way.”

He casually twines their fingers together, gazing down at the giant diamond ring adorning her finger. “It’s bullshit, you know?” he mutters after a long, silent moment. “We can do whatever we want. Go wherever we want… to get married. And Tessa…”

Pepper’s head drops, her eyes tracking over to the ring that he’s now absently pivoting back and forth. “I know,” she says softly. “It isn’t fair.”

He shakes his head and releases a long, slow breath. “She’s a good kid,” he murmurs. “A good _person_. And everything she’s been going through…” His voice drops to a heady near whisper. “Everything _I’ve_ put her through… with this damn project…” Pepper steps closer to him, laying her head onto his shoulder, her fingers squeezing tightly around his. He swallows thickly. “I just want her to have something… good. She deserves that.”

She pulls away and gazes at her fiancé, a look of utter adoration in her bright blue eyes as she says simply, “I love you so much.”

The frown remains, lingering delicately on his face, even as he leans forward to kiss her crown. “I love you too. So much.”

She takes a single step back and tugs at his hand before spinning on a heel. “C’mon,” she intones, a suddenly bright and playful lilt to her voice.

He sets the bottle of champagne down on the gray granite island and lets himself get pulled along towards the back hallway. “Where are we going?”

“We still have a few hours before they get here. And I did say I needed to thank the host,” she tosses over her shoulder before stopping and glancing back behind him. Her head cocks to the side, sly smile pulling at her lips as she raises a single, suggestive brow at him. “Bring the champagne.”

000

They’ve been in the air less than 45 minutes when Tessa – without knocking – slips into the cockpit, a half-full mimosa in her hand and a perilous frown on her face.

“Hey,” Steve says casually, catching just a glimpse from the corner of his eye. “What’s up?”

She drops down to her knees beside him, positioning herself between the two pilot seats, and gazes up at him with a truly pathetic expression. “Is this a good idea?”

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he watches the sky ahead. Really, this jet practically flies itself, but he knows better than to lose focus when airborne. “Well,” he intones before Steve gets the chance to respond to her. “You’re breaking about half a dozen FAA regulations by being up here. So _that’s_ not a good idea.”

She rolls her eyes, refusing to even look his way. Steve’s gaze is directed out at the sky as well, but she can see that his focus is at least in part on her, so she goes on freely. “Getting married. Is that a good idea?”

“In general?” Sam asks, knowing full well that she’s talking to Steve. A crooked, teasing smile pulls at his lips. “Or for you?”

She spins around to face him, falling back onto her butt as she does so. “I’m being serious.”

“Are you?” Steve inquires, pulling her attention back to him. She can easily see the hint of a cocky smile blooming on his face, even as he continues to stare out the front of the plane. “Or are you just… spinning out?”

She pulls in a deep, stilling breath and tries to keep her irritation from getting the best of her. “Can you please not be a dick… for just five minutes?”

Sam barks out a quick guffaw – “ _just_ five minutes” – as a wide frown wraps around Steve’s face.

He finally turns to look at her, gazing down as she sits cross-legged on the floor between him and Sam. “I’m not a dick. I’m never a dick,” he tells her, genuine – and terribly naïve – hurt flooding his voice.

“Steve,” she begins slowly, locking onto his eyes now that she has his attention. “If we do this, it’s _forever_.”

His brows pull together in either confusion or annoyance, she’s honestly not sure which, as he responds with a simple, “Yeah.”

She shakes her head rapidly and pulls herself back up onto her knees, her shoulders setting tensely. “I mean, nowadays half of marriages end in divorce. But to James… you two are from a time when it meant forever.”

“And you don’t want that?” he asks, voice suddenly small and hesitant.

“No. No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just… James’ father left – for whatever reason – but his parents never actually got divorced.”

“Really?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” she nods. She glances back at Steve. “And – no – I don’t want to leave. And I don’t want him to. But if that _does_ happen, I don’t want him to feel like he _has_ to stay married… because that’s what his parents did. Or what _everyone_ did back then.”

Steve looks briefly back to the wide open sky in front of them. “People got divorced back then too, Tess.”

“I know,” she nearly growls out, frustration peppering her words. “But… I just… I don’t want to _trap_ him.”

“Don’t want to be an old ball and chain?” Sam mutters.

“Yes,” she spits out. “Exactly.”

“Tessa,” Steve breathes out, impatience permeating his tone. “You’re not _trapping_ him. Bucky’s a grown man. He’s a hell of a lot older than you. And he knows what he’s getting into.”

The cabin is silent for a long, painful beat before she utters softly, “How could he know? _I_ don’t know.”

A deep sigh escapes Steve’s lungs as he pivots the seat to the side so he can face her bodily. “No one knows the future,” he mutters solemnly, reaching out and taking hold of her empty hand. “And, yeah, there’s a lot going on right now…”

“I’m asking him to marry a mutant,” she interrupts, her voice sincere and face unfaltering. “In a time when we’re… when so much is…” She can’t quite find the words to finish her thought, her lips pinching tightly shut as her head begins to shake back and forth.

“Bucky’s a former assassin,” Steve starts pointedly. “He’s got a hell of a past that I _know_ he doesn’t want to saddle you with.” Her eyes widen as they turn up to meet his, a hint of surprise gleaming in her green irises. “Yeah,” he confirms. “You’re not the only one who’s worried about… _trapping_ someone.”

Sam clears his throat the slightest bit before contributing, “Every day he still wonders if it’s gonna be the day that Hydra comes back for him.”

“Or that someone else from his past – _something_ else – will finally catch up to him,” Steve adds on. “And the thought of you being _touched_ by that… in any way,” he shakes his head slowly and gives her an utterly earnest look. “Tess, that kills him.”

“You already met the Winter Soldier once,” Sam states, his voice dropping in tenor, turning grave, even as his eyes remain fixed on the route ahead.

“Yeah,” she agrees simply, a hint of disbelief to her voice. “But… that never changed how I felt about him.”

A skeptical smile crosses Steve’s face. “He almost killed you,” he reminds her – as though she could have ever forgotten. “He’s never going to forgive himself for that. And he’s never going to stop worrying that it might happen again.”

“It won’t,” she argues harshly.

“You don’t know that.” He glances quickly out at the pale blue sky, squints a bit at the bright wispy clouds as they barely shudder through them. “And it’s not just that.” He turns his gaze on her once more. “He did a lot of bad things. He has _a lot_ of blood on his hands.”

She shakes her head and spits out vehemently, “Not _him_. Not _James_.”

“Not everything he did was because he was ordered to do it,” Steve tells her, an absolute sort of authority dripping from his words. “We’ve all made mistakes. Sometimes _we_ pay the price. Sometimes others do.” He ducks his head sadly.

“The point,” Sam interjects upon hearing Steve slip into solemn silence, “is that you both have questionable pasts and… uncertain futures.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she mumbles bitterly before quickly swallowing down what remains of her drink.

“But that shouldn’t stop you from being happy _now_.”

“I’m not talking about _being happy_. I don’t even know what that means.” She waves an errant hand absently through the air to punctuate her point. “I just… I don’t want him to get hurt. Hydra. Lobe. Our government. _Other_ governments. Much of the general public. Time.” She lets out a long sigh and drops back onto her heels. “It feels like everyone – everything – is out to get us.”

Sam offers a casual shrug. “You just said it, Tess. _Us_. As long as you two stick together, even if the whole world is out to get to you, you’ll still have each other. You’ll make it through… _together_.”

Steve nods, a single impressed eyebrow raised high. “He makes good sense.”

“Happens every now and then,” he says with a smug smirk. Then, glancing over at Tessa, he furrows his brow in confusion as he asks, “Time?”

Before she can respond, Steve issues out a bitter-sounding scoff. “She thinks Bucky will outlive her because of the serum, and that he won’t be able to handle it.”

Her eyes narrow almost dangerously at him. “Does he tell you _everything_?”

A quick shrug. “Probably not _everything_.”

A short, deep chuckle emanates from Sam’s chest. “You know, if that’s true – that he’ll outlive you by so much – hell, he’ll probably dump you in a nursing home long before you actually die, and then go find a hot new wife.” He throws a glance over his shoulder, shit-eating grin on his face as he finishes with, “He’ll survive.”

“Sam,” Steve chides loudly, both disgust and disappointment evident in his tone.

But the Falcon just continues to laugh. “You’d make quite the pair. Barnes walking around all _built_ and young looking. And his wrinkly-ass wife hobbling along next to him with her cane.”

“Enough,” Steve growls out.

“Maybe a walker?” he goes on, unfazed. “We’ll get you some tennis balls for it.”

“We?” she says in a disbelieving tone. “You think you’ll still be around then?”

“Somebody’s gotta stick around to keep you company in the ol’ folks home.”

“Oh, so you’ll be lending me _your_ tennis balls, then. But how will you get around?”

“I’ll have my wings,” he shoots back. “They’d have to pry those from my cold, dead hands. I’ll be zooming through the halls all day long.”

“Well, do me a favor and pick me up on your way to the cafeteria. I don’t want to be late and miss out on all of the good Jell-O.”

He spins around to shoot her a quick wink. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll have you down for the early bird special so you can still make it back in time for bed by six.”

“You’re a peach,” she mutters sarcastically, crooked smile blooming on her face.

Steve just shakes his head, a hint of amusement shining through his otherwise annoyed tone when he says, “You two are impossible.”

She turns to face him. “You’re just jealous that our swanky retirement community won’t let your able-bodied ass in. No Jell-O or bingo for you.”

“Story of my life,” he breathes out, pivoting his chair back towards the front of the plane. “How ‘bout this,” he offers blithely, his eyes once again trained on the wide-open world ahead. “If any of those _someones_ – or _somethings_ – who are out to get you come looking, I’ll help you both fight ‘em off.”

“I’d be up for that too,” Sam intones.

“And if one or the other of you dies first, I – _we_ ,” he corrects, glancing quickly at Sam, “will help the remaining one through it.”

“I call dibs on the widow.” Sam glances over his shoulder at Tessa, eyes positively beaming with mirth. “As long as she’s still a young and pretty widow.”

Another disappointed shake of the head comes from Steve as he finishes with, “Feel better, now?”

Tessa’s lips purse, forehead wrinkles, as she thinks through her response. The truth is, she does feel a bit better now. Maybe it’s because making light of her concerns has a way of putting them into perspective. Or maybe knowing that Bucky has similar fears and worries makes her feel a bit less alone in her doubt. Or maybe Steve’s offer – as ridiculous and almost juvenile as it is – actually does make it feel like there’s a little bit of a load off her shoulders. Maybe.

“How much longer do we have?” she asks simply, rising to her feet.

“About an hour and a half,” he tells her without looking her way.

“Okay,” she says, dropping her free hand to his shoulder and giving a tight, quick squeeze by way of a _thanks_. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied... one more chapter before I head out. Who's ready for some wedding festivities?!


	34. Stories Painted in the Sky

They arrive late in the afternoon – the day before the ceremony – to an _event_. Tony and Pepper had gotten in a full day ahead of them to set up what they refer to as a rehearsal dinner. “Just with more drinking and less… rehearsing,” Tony quips, tropical drink already in hand as he greets the group at the door. He frowns dramatically, pulling down his sunglasses to peer at the haggard-looking bunch. “What’s this? Why do you all look _tired_? And who’s missing?”

Bucky and Steve lumber in with the luggage, shoving it all in a corner as Pepper sweeps into the room with a giant smile on her face. “We’re tired because of airport security, who apparently had a _run in_ with someone on a different Stark Industries jet yesterday” the Captain bites out.

“Hm,” Tony mutters. “Strange.”

“And Natasha and Bruce are missing because they decided to go into town to take a look around.” He stops in the middle of the room, dropping his hands to his hips and standing staunchly still as he assesses the giant entryway. “Wanda got distracted by some flowers – ”

“She’s out there fawning over them now,” Tessa interrupts as Pepper dodges the others in the room and leaps toward her to envelope her in a warm hug.

“Wait a minute,” sounds from the rear of the room, a loud, irritated huff uttered in an all-too familiar voice. All eyes turn to the back corridor, narrowing to see into the dark corner of the room as Clint casually steps out into the open foyer. “Nat’s blowing us off?” His expression shifts into a giant pout. “But I’m here.”

Tessa almost trips over her own feet – and Pepper’s – as she runs across the room and throws herself at the man. She collides hard with him, eliciting a sharp _oof_ as he catches her with one arm and awkwardly tries to maintain his hold on the sloshing drink in his other hand. “You’re here!” she very nearly shouts.

“Course I am,” he chuckles. “You’re getting married.” He gives her a moment to settle her feet back on the floor before pulling away a bit and looking at her with that beaming smile that she hasn’t seen in _too damn long_. “Now get off me before you make me spill my mojito.”

Before she can even fully disentangle herself, Laura Barton appears in the room behind her husband, two drinks in hand. “Ignore him. He’s already on his third,” she says to Tessa, shoving past Clint and bopping him with her hip as she goes. She holds out what looks to be a strawberry daquiri – complete with speared fresh fruit and a giant paper umbrella. And Tessa gleefully accepts, but not before folding her arms around the woman and briefly burying her face into the crook of her neck. “Congratulations,” Laura mutters, soft and slow into her ear.

Tony scoffs loudly and heads across the room on his way back out to the sprawling veranda. “I didn’t even get a _hi, Tony_ ,” he mumbles not-so under his breath. He pauses just long enough to give Tessa a side-eyed glare, pulling a snort of a laugh from her. “Come on, party people. Bar’s out back,” he states, twining his fingers with hers to tug the blushing bride behind him.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Sam mutters, pushing through the two stilled super soldiers. Wanda finally wanders into the house as well, following Sam out back with an awestruck look still painted on her face.

Only Steve and Bucky remain in the large foyer, standing shoulder to shoulder, listening to the laughter filtering in from outside. “Well,” the blond says with a sigh. “You ready for this?”

Bucky quirks a small smile at him. “As I’ll ever be.”

000

Food is eventually served at this _rehearsal dinner_ – once Natasha and Bruce make it to the house. But the food comes a bit too late for some. The sun hasn’t yet set, and both Clint and Wanda are already passed out in the swing by the edge of the veranda, the young woman’s head lulling precariously atop Hawkeye’s knee as he sits sprawled out, drool seeping from his agape mouth as his head flops awkwardly back. The pair quickly becomes the center of attention once Sam kneels in front of them – high-pitched, drunken peals of laughter bubbling out of him as he tries to feed Wanda by prying her mouth open with crudité.

“Stop it,” Steve finally tells him, hovering off to the side of the large swing. He frowns down at the peculiar sight, arms folded stiffly across his chest. “We should put her to bed.”

“Nah,” Sam mutters, picking up another carrot to press between her pliable lips. “She’s fine.” He turns back to Steve, mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I’m making sure she’s got food in her.”

He rolls his eyes and glares reproachfully at his friend just as the laughing man flops down onto his butt with a surprised _oomph_. “Man down,” Laura mutters playfully as she steps up beside Steve. She raises her brows and extends a hand out to Sam. “Looks like you need some food in _you_ , young man.”

“Young man?” he returns, letting her help haul him off of the cool clay tile. “I like that.”

She gives him a little shove, saying with a smile, “There’s a whole damn buffet over there. Go attack it.” He chuckles his way over to the spread on the opposite side of the patio, swiping half a sandwich off Bucky’s plate as he goes. Laura glances over at Steve and takes in his worried expression as he gazes down at Wanda. “No Vision?” she asks simply. He gives her a confused look. “I was hoping to finally meet him.”

He sighs long and loud. “Nope. Somebody had to stay back at the compound, and Vision volunteered.” He shakes his head lightly. “Wanda was _not_ happy.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, I thought she might’ve had another reason for pounding those mojitos.”

“They were good, though,” he says with a crooked smile. “Just ask your husband.” He nods his head toward the unconscious – now slightly snoring – man in front of them. “You want help getting him to bed?”

“Nah,” she mutters, sipping at her own tropical drink. “He’s got sunscreen on. He’ll be fine out here.”

Steve chuckles as he leans over and sweeps away the vegetables from around Wanda’s face. He scoops her easily into his arms and turns back to Laura. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Hey, Cap!” she calls out after him as he makes his way into the house. “Maybe you can carry _me_ to bed later?” She has to bite the inside of her cheek – _hard_ – to keep from laughing at the beet red sheen that takes over his face when he glances back at her.

“I heard that,” Clint sleepily mumbles as he shifts positions on the swing.

She smiles down at him – “I’m sure you did.” – and picks up a felled carrot to offer him. He peers cautiously at it through heavily slitted eyes before haphazardly swiping it from her and popping it into his mouth.

There’s a rather sudden whirlwind then as Tessa comes barreling towards them, making a beeline from the other side of the large patio and clipping the swing as she runs past. She grabs Laura’s wrist excitedly and gives a quick, sharp tug. “Fuck it!” she exclaims, ridiculous smile on her sun-kissed face. “I can’t stay here anymore.”

“Whoa!” Clint moans as he scrambles to try and still the swaying swing. He laughs hardily before pulling his feet up and laying down across the bench seat, folding his hands beneath his cheek like a napping child. “Runaway bride!”

Laura whirls around, slipping easily from Tessa’s grip, and watches as she climbs over the railing of the veranda, falling awkwardly to the ground beneath. “What are you doing?” she asks with a laugh, just as Natasha pulls up beside her. “What is she doing?” she asks the redhead when Tessa refuses to answer, opting instead to shuck her shirt before leaping up and making for the beach.

Nat gently sips on her drink, watching with a quirked, amused brow as her friend trips over herself as she tries to take off her pants while running. Despite the momentary holdup of rolling in the sand while working the baggy linen pants off from around her ankles, she doesn’t slow down. “Looks like she’s going for a swim.”

“Should we follow her?” Laura asks, hint of _mom voice_ peeking through the mirth. “How drunk is she?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’d say pretty to very.”

A large hand drops suddenly onto Laura’s shoulder, “I got her,” issuing out in a deep voice as Bucky gives her a quick grateful pat before taking off to easily hop the railing and jog down to the beach.

“Shouldn’t she _not_ be drinking?” Natasha calls after him.

He pauses briefly and throws a quick glance over his shoulder, his tone irritated despite the amused look on his face. “Any time you wanna take over, sweetheart…”

She wrinkles up her nose as he turns again and disappears into the sand. “Did he just call me _sweetheart_?”

A light smile wraps around Laura’s features as she watches Bucky collect his fiancée’s discarded clothes. She can see that he’s shouting something at her, but his words are lost on the sea breeze, as is the laughter she’s certain is burbling out of him. “They are too damn cute,” she says, almost to herself, as the playful scene unfolds in front of her.

He drops her clothes in the sand, kicking off his shoes and tugging off his own shirt. The two pause – Tessa standing just at the water’s edge, clad in nothing but her bra and panties as the ocean plays around her ankles and Bucky several yards away, standing on guard, bent over slightly with his arms outstretched as though prepared to pounce. They eye each other for a long moment before Tessa fakes left and then takes off running to the right, heavy steps plodding in the wet sand. Bucky follows, lets her fake him out again just so he can see the gleeful tilt of her head as she laughs joyously. Then he races down the beach towards her, catching her mid-excited-leap, wrapping his arms around her and flinging them both out further into the open sea.

“Yeah, well,” Natasha mutters, her own gaze never leaving the couple dancing in the ocean. “It’s been a rough few months. So…”

Laura looks over at her with suddenly solemn eyes. “Tony mentioned that,” she says softly, sadly. “Still…” She glances back out towards the two, happily in each other’s arms as the waves crash over them. The brilliant pinks and oranges of the setting sun play off in the periphery, lending a soft glow to the pretty picture before her. “They look pretty damn cute right now.”

000

When the bride and groom finally return from their little _swim_ , everyone’s seemingly enveloped in the inherent lull that the setting sun has brought. All full of food and perhaps too much liquor – and a decent amount of much-needed good cheer – the group of friends sits lazily splayed out along all corners of the wide veranda.

Bucky – wet hair dripping down onto the unbuttoned shirt that he threw back on down at the beach – stops Tessa just before they reach the patio. He struggles to pull her top down over her head, even as she clumsily tries to slip from his grip. Her shirt’s barely half on, just covering her soaked-though light pink bra – which was really Bucky’s primary objective anyway – when she finally manages to get away from him and awkwardly hoists herself back over the wooden railing.

“Have fun?” Tony asks with a raised brow as she meanders over, collapsing beside him onto the cushioned lounge. “Ugh,” he moans, shifting away from her. “You’re getting me all wet.”

She turns to him and flashes a wide, mischievous smile. “I never thought you’d admit it,” she says in a husky – albeit teasing – voice.

He sits upright, eyeballing the soldier as he saunters over. “Gross.”

Bucky tosses the linen pants into her lap and raises an eyebrow when she frowns down at them, stating with a pout, “I don’t wanna.”

Tony rises from his seat and steps back over to the bar. “Then you don’t hafta,” he says, nodding at the new bartender that they hired for the night. “Sun’s down,” he declares. “Let’s hot tub.”

Natasha whips her head around, nearly smacking Bruce in the face with her hair. “There’s a hot tub here?” she asks, climbing slowly off of his lap and peering all around the patio.

Tony grabs a new drink in one hand and a remote with the other. “Of course there’s a hot tub. What do you take me for?” He presses a button and watches as the wood slats of the floor next to the bar slowly spread and open, revealing a huge spa just beneath. He hits another button and the tub begins to bubble and steam. “It’s not a party until everyone’s naked in the hot tub.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully, setting down the remote and drink so he can begin to unbutton his shirt.

“Tony,” Pepper warns from across the patio.

But before she can say anything about how this really isn’t that kind of party – or shouldn’t be, anyway – Tessa pulls off her shirt again and bounces over to the spa. “Sold,” she says, reaching around to undo her bra as she slowly steps into the tub.

Steve jumps up in a flash – “Whoa, hey!” – and slaps her hand off her back before she can completely unfasten the clasp. “No,” he whines in an almost pleading tone.

“Man, you’re no fun,” Sam protests as he kicks off his pants and quickly shucks his shirt, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. He steps up behind Tessa as she pulls away from Steve and moves further into the tub, cocks his head curiously as the brightly colored lights the bartender kicks on shine through her still-wet, pale pink panties. “What,” he begins, voice deep with a sudden sort of astonishment, “is _that_?”

She cranes her head around to see that Sam is pointing at her ass, and she almost laughs, thinking he’s jokingly saying she has a nice butt. Until she remembers the tattoo. Her neck bends further, eyes straining to see her behind, but making no progress despite her awkward twisting.

Tony steps around to catch a glimpse, assuming he’ll find seaweed in her underwear or something… and at the ready to mentally lock down that image for future torture. But what he sees instead is _so much_ better. “Oh my God,” he breathes out, eyes cemented to the red, white, and blue showing plain as day through her panties.

Tessa lets out an irritated huff. “It’s just a tattoo,” she intones, looping a thumb through the waistband and pulling the underwear down over her left cheek so they can see.

“Tessa!” Bucky shouts out, not angrily – no, in fact, he’s had a coy grin on his face this whole time. But his voice reeks of dismay the moment she pops out her hip and starts to peel off her panties. She looks up at him with big innocent doe eyes, shrugging slightly as if to say, _what’s the big deal?_

Well, aside from him simply not wanting his fiancée to be naked on display in front of nearly everyone he knows… The big deal is Steve. The big deal is the look of abject horror that Steve has on his face as he stands stone still while Tony and Sam collapse into fits of laughter on either side of him. Bucky watches his face closely, waiting…

“That’s…” Tony chokes out, huge guffaws wracking his body. “That’s…”

Sam is bent over, almost unable to breathe as he bites out, “The best thing I’ve ever seen… ever!” Slowly, he lets himself drop down to the ground, the laughter causing him to crumple and heave.

“Okay,” Bucky mutters, stepping into the hot tub – still clothed – and plucking Tessa’s hand from her waistband before tugging the underwear back in place. “We get it,” he says plainly as he takes hold of her shoulders and pulls her down into the bubbling water.

He take a seat on the edge of the tub, legs submerged up to his shins as he settles her into the spa. She quirks a brow as she looks up at him. “Why are your pants still on?”

“I think you’re naked enough for the both of us, doll,” he responds before his eyes bounce back up to his friend’s still-stunned face. The corner of his mouth ticks up just the slightest bit and he nods over at Steve. “You okay there, pal?”

The Captain’s deep blue eyes slowly drop down to meet Bucky’s, his open mouth suddenly pulling shut.

“I gotta say,” Tony murmurs as he slaps Steve on the back. Unlike the still-writhing man to their left, his laughter is well under control when he states, “I think that’s _exactly_ where my dad would’ve wanted the shield to land.”

Natasha – once again nestled in Bruce’s lap – leans over to pat Sam on the back as his guffaws give way to a coughing fit. “Embedded in a beautiful woman’s ass?” she asks blithely.

“Aw,” Tessa mewls as she leans back between Bucky’s legs. “You think I’m beautiful?” Nat simply nods as a terribly uncomfortable-looking Bruce seems to shrink beneath her.

“You know what would make you even more beautiful?” Tony asks, face completely sincere. Tessa looks to him and cocks a curious brow. “Iron Man’s face on your – ”

“Oh, woah,” Bruce spits out, interrupting what he’s sure will be a sentence that ends with a metal fist to his friend’s face. He leans forward, peeking around a positively beaming Natasha. “Whatever you were going to say, _don’t_.”

He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Like you weren’t thinking the Hulk’s fist wouldn’t look great smashing through her – ”

“No!” Pepper shouts then. “Tony,” she chides loudly, “no!”

He rolls his eyes dramatically and undoes his pants, quickly shimmying out of them to get down to his boxers before lowering himself into the hot tub. He skirts over beside Tessa, completely ignoring Bucky’s low, warning growl. “You gotta tell us, buttercup. Why Cap?”

She shrugs – “He’s my favorite.” – and looks over at Steve with a wiggle of her brows.

His pallor starts to return to normal, the bright red blush slowly dissipating as he lets out a long, deep, cleansing breath. His pinched lips pull into a thoughtful frown as he begins to nod his head, and a playful twinkle emerges in his gaze. “I can’t say I didn’t see this coming,” he mutters softly before locking onto her eyes. He continues to nod, an almost distracted movement, as he says, “I always knew you were in love with me.”

Tessa works to bite back a laugh, pressing her lips tightly together as she raises her eyebrows and nods in return. She feels Bucky’s flesh hand tighten just the slightest bit around her shoulder. “It was a bet,” he says simply, glancing up at Natasha. “Someone took advantage of her drinking problem.”

“Don’t look at me. It was all Hill’s doing.”

Tessa maneuvers her head to glare up at him. “And I don’t have a drinking problem.”

He cocks a brow at her. “It’s a problem when you get so drunk you let someone permanently draw over half your ass.”

She shrugs. “I left the other half for you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

He slides into the tub behind her, trousers quickly filling with water, and he settles his arm around her waist to pull her close. “No.”

Pepper – who actually had the wherewithal to wear a bathing suit beneath her sundress – steps over with two drinks in hand and leans down to offer one to Tessa as she flicks at Tony’s shoulder with her foot. He shifts to make room for her to lower herself into the tub beside him. “Remind me to send Maria Hill a fruit basket,” he tells her as he plucks the other drink from her hand.

“I have to say,” Pepper starts, quirking a smile at Tessa, “When I heard what happened… I was so disappointed that I didn’t get to hang out with you ladies that night.”

“You knew?” she asks, only a bit surprised. She merely nods in response, the look on her face stating an obvious truth – Pepper Potts knows _everything_.

Tony cranes his neck to look at her. “And you didn’t tell me? What the hell kind of fiancée are you?!”

Sam drops suddenly – heavily – into the hot tub, splashing Tony in the face as he does so. His eyes are red rimmed from the tears that leaked out during his _episode_ , but his breathing is under control despite the occasional catch in his chest as a lingering chortle emerges. “Sistas before mistas,” he announces with a wide grin.

Tessa nods from the other side of the tub as she sips at her drink. “Sam, you should be a bridesmaid.”

“You know, I really should.” He spreads his arms out wide across the lip of the tub as he looks into his friend’s – for once – sparkling eyes. “My older sister taught me how to walk in heels.”

She throws her head back and laughs, the deep, vivacious chuckle vibrating through her body and losing itself somewhere in Bucky’s chest. He tugs her just a little bit closer, holds her just a little bit tighter, and presses a soft kiss to her naked shoulder as he lets her bliss seep into him.

“What is this,” Tony spits out, “the night of revealing deep, dark secrets?”

“Yeah,” Bruce mutters, sitting upright as Natasha moves from his lap. He gazes at her as she undoes her wrap dress and lets it fall, pooling around her bare feet. He swallows hard as he takes in the sight of her in the black lacy underwear and bra that _he_ had bought for her just a few weeks back. “Tell us yours,” he says to Tony, his voice sounding as preoccupied as his eyes obviously are.

Tony lets out a sharp _psh_. “I’m an open book.” He looks over at Steve, who’s looking far more relaxed now, sitting with his pants rolled up to his shins, his bare feet soaking in the bubbling water. “What about you, Cap?”

He moves over to allow Natasha to lower herself into the tub, his cheeks inadvertently blushing once again at the glimpse he catches of her lacy underwear. “Um..” he mutters before clearing his throat. “I don’t have any tattoos.” He turns his gaze on Sam, who’s just to his right. “I _can_ walk in heels, though.”

“What?” he hears sound from behind, the groggy voice still a bit slurred. He cranes his head around to see Clint and Laura standing just behind him, having only now emerged from their hour-long _nap_ inside. “What did we just walk in on?” he asks, casually kicking off his flip-flops. “And where did this hot tub come from?”

Tony scoots himself closer to Pepper, squishing her up against Bucky and Tessa and grinning at her annoyed huff. He waves the couple over. “Undress, take a seat, and listen as Cap tells us all about his days as a drag queen.” He glances at Steve. “Or… saloon girl? I forget, what era are you from again, old man?”

To his credit, Steve just lets out a good-natured chuckle. He might not be able to get drunk anymore, but he’s had enough liquor today to somehow sooth his soul and calm his mind. “I toured with a bunch of USO girls.” Tessa flicks a quick kick at him from across the tub, splashing water up to his midsection. “Sorry,” he coughs out, correcting himself with, “ _women_.”

Clint’s already down to his boxers, one foot in the tub when he asks, “And they dressed you up?”

He shakes his head, shifting a bit to make room for Laura to sit next to him and merely dangle her feet in the steaming water. “I showed them how fast I could run and one of them bet that I couldn’t do it in heels.” He shrugs. “She was wrong.”

“How’d they find shoes that fit you?” Laura inquires from his right.

“Oh, they went out and bought the biggest pair they could find. Those shoes went on tour with us,” he says with a playful wink and a quick slurp of his drink.

Tony leans over to Clint and asks, far too loudly to truly be conspiratorial, “Did you know your Doc has Cap’s shield tattooed on her ass?” His dark eyes sparkle with sincere amusement and a hint too much scotch.

Clint raises a brow and scoffs. “Course I did. Nat sent me a picture that night.”

Tessa’s eyes blow wide as she spins to look at the redhead beside her. “You did not,” she almost shrieks. Natasha merely shrugs. Her eyes flick up to Bruce, who continues to sit several feet away from the group, lounging comfortably in a heavily cushioned chair. “Did you tell him too?”

“No,” he answers for her. “She probably knew I’d never be able to look at you the same way again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snipes playfully. “Do you no longer respect me now that I’ve been _branded_?”

Sam’s head flops back as a bark of laughter escapes his lips. “Ha! Branded by Captain America!”

Bruce stares her down casually, nothing more than a slight glint in his eye to tell her that he is in fact having fun with this. “I stopped respecting you when you took a seat on the board at SI.”

“You _told_ me to take the job!”

“Yeah,” he chuckles lightly. “So I wouldn’t have to.”

Tony clears his throat before speaking up. “I will have you know, Stark Industries employs only the brightest minds. And the tightest of assess,” he adds coyly, reaching down and pinching Pepper’s butt beneath the water. She jumps and backhands him in the chest, setting off a deep, heartfelt chortle before he raises a brow at Tessa. “You’re lucky you didn’t completely ruin yours with that nonsense.”

A sly smile creeps along her face as she continues to sip at her drink. “I knew you only hired me for my body.”

He snorts bitterly. “If that were true, I’d have fired you the minute you foolishly broke that pretty little body by slamming your motorcycle into a car.” He taps a finger harshly against his temple. “ _You_ are one of the brightest minds.”

She leans closer to the center of the tub and cranes her head toward him. “But Peter… you said I could hire him because of his tight little ass, didn’t you?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I’m calling HR the moment you get back. And the police.” His face twists into a frown as he cocks his head at her. “I thought you were into the elderly?” His eyes flash up to take in Bucky’s barely amused expression before shooting a glance over at Steve. “That’s clearly how you’ve branded yourself, anyway.”

She shrugs blithely. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never gone after _you_.”

“That hurts,” he says with a nod. “Really. Hurts. And after all I’ve done for you.” He sweeps his hand wide to indicate the patio, the bar, the hot tub… all of Costa Rica. “Just look what I’ve given you.”

Her brows furrow, newfound frown almost comical on her face. “Wait. Is this your wedding gift? A wedding?”

“You wanted more?!”

She shrugs and bypasses the straw in her drink, taking a long, hard chug of the tropical booze. “Was kinda hoping for a card full of cash. Is there such a thing as a million dollar bill?” She shifts back into Bucky, her hand slipping on his leg and causing her to almost fall face first into the water as she does so. “I would very much like to see that,” she says, seemingly unaware of her sloppiness – and the growing slur to her words.

“Okay,” Bucky breathes out, plucking the drink from her hands and handing it over to Natasha. “Time for us to go.”

Her head falls back to watch him as he stands in the tub, water sloshing from his soaked-through pants. “Noooo,” she whines, going limp the moment he scoops his hands under her armpits. He pulls her from the water with virtually no effort at all and, despite her initial protests, she quickly spins around and falls into him. Wrapping her arms around his middle, she mutters simply, “Carry me?”

He looks down at Tony, tries to ignore Tessa’s pleading eyes – and wandering hands – as he asks, “Where are we sleeping?”

“No sleep!” she shouts, pulling back and slipping on the wet wood slats. His right arm cinches around her waist, keeping her from falling backwards into the tub, and he lets out an exhausted-sounding sigh.

Tony points straight ahead of him, off towards a little bungalow in the far corner of the property. “You get the guesthouse all to yourselves.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Good luck, Thick Thighs.”

Tessa spins around to face him. “That was for him, right? You didn’t just call me…” She pauses and swallows thickly, swaying in Bucky’s grip before _eeping_ out a small laugh followed by a hiccup. “Yeah, I’m not walking that far.”

Bucky’s lids close for a moment, head shaking slowly as he pulls in a deep, settling breath. He takes one look at her glassy eyes and the way they inadvertently ping all over. “Yep,” he sighs, loosening his grip and turning his back on her. “Hop on,” he mutters, bending over a bit and waiting for his drunken, gleeful fiancée to awkwardly climb atop him.

Bruce leaps up from his seat to help steady her – knowing full well that if she falls and cracks her head open, he’s the one who’ll be tasked with stitching it up. “All set,” he says with a tight-lipped smile once she seems to be in place with her arms around Bucky’s neck and his hands tightly gripping her thighs. “Just shout if you drop her.”

Bucky twists around and gives him a _bitch, please_ glare, so uncharacteristic of the man that even gloomy Bruce cracks a grin and lets out a quick laugh.

“The whole point of putting them off in that bungalow was so that we wouldn’t hear them,” Tony says, rising from the steaming tub and stepping back over to the bar. “No matter how loud they _shout_.”

Tessa purrs in Bucky’s ear, gives him a little nip along the lobe, and whispers to him, “Challenge accepted.”

000

She slips from his back – almost tripping over herself and taking a header into the small kitchen counter – the moment they enter the bungalow. It’s a sweet little guesthouse – one larger main room with a sitting area in the corner and tiny kitchenette by the door, leaving space for the giant double doors at the center of the house that lead into the bedroom.

“Champagne!” Tessa squeals as she spies the setup on the counter. A bottle of Dom Perignon sits on ice, flanked by two crystal flutes and a sliver bowl filled with strawberries. There’s a note sitting atop the fruit that she snags, but quickly finds herself unable to read, vision slightly swimming. “Babe,” she says, spinning around and searching for Bucky. She holds the card out to him and pouts with furrowed brow. “Help.”

He stands by the small fridge in the kitchenette, hurriedly gulping down water before rolling his eyes and stepping back over to her. He trades her a bottle of water – along with a commanding _drink that_ stare – for the small, folded notecard. “Too drunk to read?” he mutters with a barely amused huff.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I took my contacts out on the plane.”

“Uh huh.” He unfolds the card and reads the calligraphed note aloud. “ _Hope this makes up for that expensive wine of yours that I finished off the other day. Also, congratulations and I love you. Natasha._ ” He cocks a brow at the champagne and berries before looking back up to meet Tessa’s – clearly heartened – gaze. “I’m assuming she’s talking just to you,” he declares, dropping the note on the counter.

She smiles wickedly at him. “We should open it.”

“Absolutely not.” He struggles to keep a straight face as hers falters into an exaggerated frown.

“But it’s our wedding-night eve,” she whines, reaching out to swipe a giant strawberry out of the dish.

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of champagne tomorrow.” He turns to head into the bedroom through the open double doors, notices that their luggage is already sitting atop the small bench at the foot of the bed. “I’m taking a shower. I smell like the damn ocean,” he mumbles before spinning back around to face her. “Drink that water.”

“But I want champagne.”

“Drink the water. Then come find me in the shower,” he offers with a wink.

She does just that, guzzling half of the bottle before dry heaving for a moment… then downing the rest and carefully, slowly making her way to the bathroom. The shower’s relatively small, not much room for two people. But that ends up being a moot point anyway as Tessa spins away from the shower door the moment Bucky opens it and begins emptying her stomach into the toilet. He holds back her hair, crouched naked behind her – equal parts irritated and amused. Then he steps back beneath the running water to rinse off his suds before ushering her into the shower stall and leaving her to clean up on her own.

She finishes up about twenty minutes later, feeling tired but much more sober as she meanders out to the small veranda off of the bedroom in search of him. Bucky’s reclined back on a heavily padded lounge chair, arms folded up beneath his head as he stares up towards the heavens. She watches him for a long moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed quality of his posture, the slight uptick of his lips. Without so much as craning his head towards her, he unfolds an arm and reaches a single hand out in the direction of the doorway she’s standing in.

She moves over in just a few short strides and settles in beside him as he shifts to make room. “Feeling better?” he asks, voice soft and low.

“I don’t really feel _that_ drunk,” she says, pulling his right arm around her and settling her back into his chest. She can feel the slow and steady beat of his heart along her spine, and the reassuring sensation brings a smile to her lips. “I think it’s all the sugar… daquiris and mojitos.”

He lets out a short chuckle. “Okay. Sure.”

She sighs deeply, stifling the yawn that threatens to ride up on its heels, and she twists her head to gaze up at the stars. “You can see everything out here,” she mutters softly. “There’s Ursa Major.” She points up into the night sky, delight evident in her voice when she says, “That was always my favorite.” 

He hums softly into her wet hair as her warm body presses into his.

“Do you know all the constellations?” she asks, threading her fingers with his and slowly running her thumb along the outside of his hand.

He _does_ know the constellations.

His little sister had been fascinated by them when they were young. She’d sit out on the fire escape for hours at night – even in the biting cold of winter, their mother shouting at her that she’d catch pneumonia – and count the stars. When Bucky began learning about the constellations in school – learning that not only were there pictures painted in the night sky, but that each and every one of those pictures told a story – he couldn’t wait to share it all with Becca.

They’d spent hours sitting out on that old fire escape, squinting to see the stars that the city lights tried to blind them to, filling in the blanks with their imagination. When they couldn’t make out a constellation, Becca would just chart a new one, connecting different dots to broaden Orion’s shoulders. Or painting an entirely new picture of Cassiopeia running and the Gemini twins standing galaxies apart from one another. Then she’d turn to him and wait for a story, an explanation of how Orion managed to grow, why it was that Cassiopeia was running, what had happened to drive the twins apart. And he would tell her – a new story each time, riddled with ridiculous details and outlandish extras – all in the hopes of seeing her gapped-toothed smile and hearing that trilling little-girl laugh.

“No,” he whispers to Tessa, the word carrying on the salty breeze. “Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They deserve a little fun, no? And joy? I just hope this quickly thrown-together wedding goes off without a hitch...


	35. Make Do with What We've Got

Bucky wakes early the next morning to find Tessa’s side of the bed not only empty, but cold. The room is silent, no shower running in the ensuite. And the sun is barely visible in the sky, only just beginning to illuminate the room. He climbs out of bed and looks out the double doors, expecting to find her sitting out on the small veranda that they both very nearly fell asleep on last night. But she’s not there. His eyes slowly arc out towards the ocean where the gentle oranges and pinks cast by the rising sun cause a rippling sort of shimmer. And there he can just make out a small figure floating on the waves.

By the time he makes it down to the beach, she’s already begun to plod out of the water. He drops down to sit in the sand, next to her towel and shoes, and waits for her to make her way over. The slowly rising sun continues to burn in brilliant shades of pink and red and orange as it peeks out over the horizon, just beyond her, creating a brilliant backdrop. He squints a bit as he watches her leisurely tread over.

She looks calm, relaxed. Happy even. Her shoulders are neither pulled tight in an attempt to carry the weight of the world, nor hunched and slumped with the heaviness of sorrow and fatigue. His lips curl into a contented smile, his own shoulders relaxing, muscles easing, as he notes the way she casually flings her wet hair, squeezing seawater from the ends, before looking up and finally noticing him waiting for her.

A wide smile breaks over her face and she picks up the pace a bit, hopping delicately up the beach towards him. “Hi,” she utters simply, a bit out of breath, as she finally makes it over and drops down to the sand in front of him. He grabs her towel and wraps it around her shoulders, tugs her close when he feels her give a small shiver from the cool early morning breeze.

“Were you swimming in the dark?” he asks, a hint of concern to his otherwise smiling voice.

She turns around and works her way in between his knees, leaning her back against his chest. He breathes in her scent – an oddly sweet mix of vanilla and brine. “It’s different at night,” she mutters softly. “Or… early, early morning. I don’t know if fish – or any other sea creatures – are nocturnal. But the energy in the ocean… in the moonlight… it’s _amazing_.”

He nods into her, bends his face a bit further down to place a lingering kiss on her salty neck. “You probably shouldn’t go swimming in the ocean by yourself. Especially in the dark.”

“Afraid a shark’ll get me?” she teases.

He actually shudders at the thought. “I don’t know how you can go in there. _Anything_ could get you.” He pauses briefly and squeezes her tight. “You could drown,” he says, tone low and dark.

She takes hold of his hands as they splay around her middle – “I don’t plan on doing that again.” – and leans further into him, laying her head back on his shoulder, her wet hair soaking through his T-shirt.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, his breath warm on her chilled skin. “Been a while since you tied one on like that.”

She shrugs. “Boot and rally.” And he cringes as he recalls the awful sounds she made emptying her stomach the night before. “Last day of being single,” she intones then, effectively changing the subject. “What _will_ you do with yourself?”

“Well,” he starts, giving her another quick squeeze and nuzzling into her wet hair. “I was thinking I’d watch the sun rise with my girl.”

“And then what?”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Don’t know. Haven’t thought about it. You got any ideas?” he asks with a cunning smirk. A small laugh rumbles through her, reverberating into his chest. He tugs her closer as his grin widens. “I’m sure Steve has something in mind. And it sounds like Pepper has a whole day planned for you.”

“Ah, yes,” she says with a wistful sigh. “Girls brunch… very important. Then mani-pedi, hair and makeup…” She twists in his arms and gazes up at him. “You won’t recognize me at all by the end of it. There’ll be a stranger walking down the aisle towards you.”

He feels a deep rumbling in his gut at the mere mention of an aisle – _butterflies_ , he thinks, finally understanding why they call it that. _Walking down the aisle towards you._ He swallows thickly and clears his throat, eyes shifting back out towards the ever brightening horizon. “Not sure how I feel about that,” he breathes out with a put-on frown.

“Nah,” she mutters, rolling back towards the sea as well. “You’ll like it.”

“How would you like it if I showed up at the altar looking like a different man?”

She shrugs. “Depends on the man.”

“Very funny,” he says, jostling her a bit in his arms as she begins to laugh.

“I wouldn’t be _so_ upset if you shaved, though,” she intones casually. “I mean… only if you think the occasion is special enough to warrant it.”

He leans forward and presses his cheek to hers, rubs his stubbled face into her flesh until she emits a soft, amused squeak. “You wouldn’t recognize me at all.”

She giggles lightly. “I always wanted to make love to a stranger on my wedding night.”

“Most girls dream about wearing silk and lace and dancing with the groom on their wedding night,” he teases reproachfully.

She shrugs. “Have I ever struck you as being like _most girls_?”

“No baby,” he says before placing a swift kiss on her cheek. “You’re one of a kind.”

000

Tessa’s lips pull into a small, tight frown as she glances around the room. “This feels a little sexist to me,” she mutters before dropping her gaze back down to her left hand. The manicurist has only just finished two of her nails and already she feels squirmy and bored. “Sam and Clint get to go surfing, Bruce is out… exploring or something. And I have to sit here and get painted like a doll.”

“It’s called being pampered,” Pepper states with a raised brow as she sweeps by and hands the bride a giant orange and pink smoothie.

She accepts it with her free hand and bites at her pouting bottom lip as she inspects the glass. “Is there alcohol in this?”

Natasha lets out a huff as she drops down onto the sofa on the other side of Tessa and extends her hand out to the waiting manicurist. “Must you always have alcohol?”

She shrugs – “It was just a question.” – and awkwardly maneuvers the straw between her lips using just her tongue.

“Let her have some fun,” Laura chides as she lounges back in the overstuffed chair in the corner. “It’s her wedding day. And besides,” she raises her head and gives Tessa a quizzical look, “when was the last time you had a vacation?”

She emits a low sort of snort, her lip curling irreverently. “When I spent Christmas morning dodging your crazy kids.”

“That’s terrible,” she mutters, dropping her head back onto the cushion. “Even I’ve taken a vacation since then.”

“Forgetting the kids at school while you wander aimlessly around Target for hours doesn’t count as a vacation,” Natasha snipes playfully.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink anymore,” Wanda chimes from her spot in the window seat. She frowns briefly at Tessa before returning her gaze to her perfectly painted nails. She was the first to get them done, her childlike eagerness to be pampered and made up – because, really, how many poor Sokovian orphans get the chance to be treated like this? – making the others bubble with warmth as they positioned her first in line.

Tessa glances over at the young woman, a small smile perking her lips as she notes the dreamy way she gazes down at her fingertips before turning back to the vast ocean view outside the window. “I can drink,” she states plainly. “I just can’t… filter it like I used to. Worse comes to worse, I’ll run out and get some dialysis.”

Natasha gives her a warning side-eyed glare. “That’s not funny,” spilling from her lips in a dangerous tone.

“Fine,” she responds, quirking a challenging eyebrow at her friend. “I’ll put in for a transplant. What’s your blood type again?”

The redhead metes out a defiant glare of her own. “First of all, I’m pretty sure you have all of our blood types memorized. Second of all, I _would_ give you a kidney if you needed it –”

Tessa cuts her off with a swift, dismissive wave of her hand. “Wouldn’t work. You’re AB,” she mutters, proving Nat’s point. “But _Wanda_ ,” she intones slyly, moving her gaze across the room towards the curious looking woman in the window, “is A positive… a match!”

“You’re not getting either of my kidneys,” she replies coolly, a hint of amusement on her face. She brings her own smoothie to her lips and – just prior to taking a long, savoring drink – mutters, “I’m using them.”

“Well,” Pepper breathes out, lowering herself beside Wanda in the window seat and taking the girl’s free hand in hers to inspect her manicure. “There’s no alcohol in these anyway.” She smiles at Wanda and gives an approving nod before turning back to Tessa. “But there will be champagne during hair and makeup.”

Natasha slurps down some of her fruity drink and utters under her breath, “As usual, she’s got it all figured out.”

Pepper just nods – “That’s what I do.” – and glances back out the window. “And if it makes you feel any better,” she starts, craning her neck to look down at the beach through the window. “It looks like Sam has crashed and burned.”

“I’m pretty sure he just wanted to nap on the beach anyway,” Laura says as she rises from her seat, steps over and looms just above Pepper’s shoulder so she too can look out the window. “He just felt bad that no one else would agree to go with Clint.” Out towards the right, just barely visible from their vantage point, she’s able to catch a glimpse of her husband riding a fairly small wave, no doubt simply warming up and waiting for a larger one.

The pout returns to Tessa’s lips. “I would’ve gone with him.”

Pepper spins around to face her, a slight irritation – the kind that’s typically only brought on by Tony – burning behind her irises. “You have the rest of the week to stay here and surf. Or swim. Or lay on the beach and nap.”

She takes another long drink of her smoothie, lets the cold, thick fruit juice slide down the back of her oddly scratchy throat before responding. “But it’ll be just the two of us later, and James will barely get in the water. There’s no way I’ll get him to surf.”

Nat shifts to face her as she offers the manicurist her other hand. “What’s he doing now anyway? I know Steve said he needed some time to work on the ceremony.”

She shrugs and clears her gritty throat. “He said he was going to go for a walk. I think he and Steve are supposed to sit around and drink and smoke cigars or something later.”

“Ah, yes,” Laura intones as she moves over and sits beside Tessa on the arm of the couch. She notes the way the bride impatiently fidgets in her seat, but sees that there are only two nails left, so doesn’t bother to tell her to sit still as her motherly instincts desire. “Clint mentioned that Tony procured some Cubans. He seemed pretty excited.”

Pepper shakes her head. “What is it about men and cigars?”

Natasha shrugs. “I like cigars.”

“Me too,” Tessa ekes out just prior to a quick – and perfectly timed – thick-sounding cough. The manicurist releases her and she tugs her hand away to cover her mouth, standing and spinning out of the way so that Laura can drop into her spot. She swallows thickly, feeling an odd sort of numbness in the back of her throat, and takes another long drink to try and dispel the tingle.

“Are you alright?” Wanda asks from her perch near the window, her head cocking to the side as a small, concerned frown pulls at her features.

Nat stifles a laugh. “She’s probably just feeling some of the aftereffects of all that rum from yesterday.”

Tessa tries to hold back another cough and sucks down some more smoothie. Her chest constricts a bit, throat continuing to tingle and burn as she attempts to swallow the juice and almost chokes on it. Her brows pull together in confusion as she sputters and spits what didn’t make it down back into her glass. “No,” she mutters before pulling in a tight breath and slowly lowering herself to the arm of the couch. She looks down at the smoothie, feels – and hears – a wheeze bellow out of her. And her eyes widen with the sudden realization that, “there’s mango in this.”

000

By the time Steve finally extricates himself from the guesthouse – where he’d gone to make some last-minute tweaks to what he was referring to as his _officiant debut_ – Bucky’s already walked about five and half miles, looping along the beach. He’d probably still being pacing out amid the salty breeze, letting the sound of waves crashing along the shore drown out his anxieties, if Sam hadn’t started following him and talking his ear off. He’d hoped he’d lose the suddenly all-too chatty man – clearly far too refreshed after his late morning nap on the beach – once they got back to the property. But as soon as they hit the pathway, Steve bellowed out a, “Hey,” from the guesthouse veranda and eagerly waved them both over.

It’s not that he _needs_ to be alone. Truthfully, he’s not even sure that he _wants_ to be. But he’s nervous as hell and feeling all kinds of jumpy and jittery. And the last thing he needs right now is to see the smug faces of his friends as they laugh and poke fun about the groom having cold feet.

It’s not cold feet… definitely not. He’s more than ready to marry Tessa. And with everything that’s been going on at home – thinking that there was a good chance they’d never even get to do this, at least not legally – well, that makes this day all the more important. Almost too important, really. Yes, that’s it. This is beginning to feel like the most important thing he’s ever done. And he’s helped save the world. Multiple times.

“You need to calm down,” Steve tells him with a chuckle when he notices Bucky’s knuckles turning white as he grips the porch railing. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” he deadpans.

“If anything, I’m the one who should be nervous,” he counters. “I’m the one who has to get up and talk in front of everyone.”

Sam scoffs from across the veranda. “All what, seven or eight of us?”

“This is a lot of responsibility,” he turns and says to his still-smirking friend. “I’m joining this couple in holy matrimony.”

“Is it still considered _holy_ matrimony if the guy performing the ceremony isn’t clergy?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, looking suddenly stricken. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He holds up a stilling hand and takes a slow step back towards the sliding door. “I think I need a minute. Gotta do some rewrites.”

Sam laughs as Steve ducks back inside. “He is taking this very seriously,” he intones, shaking his head.

Bucky nods. “Good.”

Sam strides over to where he’s standing, his hands still firmly gripping the railing in front of him as he watches Clint try – and fail – to catch a wave a ways out. “There’s really nothing to be nervous about,” he says in a low, steady tone. “It’s just us. That’s usually one of the worst things about a wedding… having all eyes on you, being made the center of attention. I talked a lot of guys through that at the VA. Being put on display like that, having people expecting so much out of you… it’s hard on anyone. Especially someone with a stress disorder.” He reaches over and pats Bucky on the shoulder. “But none of us expect anything out of you. Ever.”

He turns to face the sneering man to his right. “Gee, thanks.”

“Really, though,” he laughs. “All this is gonna be is a nice, fun party where the people closest to you and Tess get to celebrate –”

“The biggest moment in our lives?” he interrupts quickly.

“Man, you sound like a teenage girl,” he sniggers.

Bucky sighs, turning his focus back out to the ocean ahead. “I just want it be…”

“Perfect?” Sam asks. Then, with a cheeky lilt, “Magical?”

He glances at him with a threatening scowl. “I’m not a child,” he tells him. “Or a teenage girl.” He lets out another deflating sigh. “It’s just not fair… the way this all went down. It’s not like either of us had any real plans or ideas about what our wedding would look like. But I never thought we’d have to do it under the radar in a foreign country. And that we’d have to rush through it just to make sure we get it in before some other bullshit policies get passed.”

Sam nods sadly. “You’re right. It’s not fair. And it is bullshit.” He turns around and leans back onto the railing at the edge of the porch so he can see Bucky’s face. “But it is beautiful here. And Stark has done a hell of a job at getting that dream wedding vibe.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over to his briefly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“And you still got Steve doing the ceremony. And the rest of us are here to root you on.”

He frowns deeply. “Tessa doesn’t have any of her family,” he mutters, voice low and full of regret.

Sam nods again. “It sucks that they’re not here. But I wouldn’t say she doesn’t have _any_ of her family. Right?” Bucky offers a slow, pained smile in response. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he answers, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

“Your family’s not here either. You okay with that?”

He shrugs. “Would it matter if I wasn’t?”

“No,” he utters, tone soft and reassuring. “But, just so you know, it’s okay to be upset about that. I can’t imagine getting married without my mom being there.”

Bucky looks at him long and hard, almost studying the level of sincerity on Sam’s face. “I wish she could be here,” he utters softly, gaze traveling back to the sea. “I wish Tessa’s family could be here for her. I wish we didn’t have people at home – people who don’t even know us – trying to keep us from living our lives together.” Then he shrugs again and straightens his shoulders, taking a step back from the edge of the porch. “But I guess we gotta make do with what we’ve got.”

“Yeah,” Sam says with a small smile. “And let’s be real, man, we’ve got a lot.”

Just then, Tony comes sweeping out onto the veranda, his hands up in a placating gesture. “Don’t panic,” he starts as he approaches the two men.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “What?”

“Everything’s fine,” he assures. “Just a little hiccup.”

“What, the 100 doves you bought to release all died from the heat?” Sam snipes with a chuckle.

“No,” he intones. “My fiancée _accidentally_ poisoned yours,” he says, eyes boring into Bucky, watching intently for a reaction.

“What?” he repeats, more confused than concerned.

He flaps a dismissive hand through the air. “There were smoothies or something… and apparently they were chock full of mango.”

Bucky drops his face into his hands, deflating a bit as Sam blankly asks, “So?”

“She’s allergic,” the super soldier utters through parted fingers, his tone sounding utterly exhausted.

“One of the caterers had an epi-pen for some reason,” Tony says with a shrug. “She’s fine. Really. Bruce is looking at her now. But…” he shrugs again, an obvious attempt at seeming nonchalant. “She’s fine.”

Bucky gives him an incredulous look. “Where is she?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m not allowed to tell you that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and heads through the small guesthouse out to the winding path beyond.

Tony chases after him. “You’re not supposed to see her before the wedding,” he says, swiftly stepping in front of him to block his path once they reach the main house. “Bad luck.”

He gives him a tired expression – “I saw her this morning already.” – and shoves past.

“Yeah, sure. But… that was it. Until the ceremony.” He throws up his hands. “Her rules, not mine. She didn’t even want me to tell you about this. But I thought I should in case she’s still a little… puffy when you do see her.”

Sam’s face scrunches up. “How allergic is she?”

“Very,” Bucky mumbles as he sidesteps Tony once again and strides down the hall.

The moment he makes the turn towards the master bedroom, Pepper pops out to the center of the hallway, stopping him in his tracks. “I am _so_ sorry,” she tells him, tears evident in her voice.

He releases a deep sigh and shakes his head. “She should’ve told you she was allergic.”

She sniffles a bit. “I did ask for any information regarding dietary restrictions. I _always_ ask that.”

“Not her first rodeo,” Tony chimes in from behind.

Pepper throws her hands in the air. “All she told me was, _no fish sticks_. I didn’t even know what to do with that. Did she really think I’d serve fish sticks? On her wedding day?”

Bucky cocks an amused brow as he ducks around her, grasping the knob to the bedroom door. “See? It’s not your fault,” he issues out as he swiftly swings the door open, dodging the tall blonde. His eyes scan the room for his fiancée, but there’s no trace of her. There’s just Natasha, sitting prim and proper in an armchair across the way, looking as though she’s been expecting him for some time.

“She’s in the shower,” she states plainly, pointing towards the ensuite.

He huffs out an exhausted breath. “Is she okay?” he asks simply.

“Do you think I’d just be sitting here if she wasn’t?” she replies with a sternly raised brow.

He narrows his eyes at her challengingly. “Is she _okay_?”

She waves him off, flopping her hand dismissively through the air. “She’s fine. Really.” She pulls herself up out of the chair and saunters over to Bucky, laying a delicate hand on his right arm. “Instead of getting a massage this afternoon, she’ll sleep off the Benadryl. No biggie.” She tightens her fingers around his arm and spins him toward the door. “But I don’t really think we need to taunt the fates by doing anything that’s considered bad luck right now. Do you?”

He relents as she practically pushes him back out into the hall, saying only, “Tell her I came by,” before the door is slammed in his face.

“Ouch,” Sam announces with a grin. “Now what?”

Bucky leans heavily against the wall, gently beating his head back against it in a slight rhythm as he thinks.

“Well,” Pepper says, voice still a bit meek. “I know I might not have the best ideas today, but I think there might be _something_ you could do that would make for a nice surprise. If you’re up for it…”


	36. What Love Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bucky had to travel through time to find you,” he tells her, holding her gaze. “He had to sleep for decades just so that when he finally woke up, he’d be waking up next to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gotten a bit carried away with the super-sweet fluffiness here... fair warning, you might come away from this one with a mouth full of cavities...

Coffee and champagne – breakfast of champions.

Tessa gets a good four and a half hours of deep, drool-worthy sleep in before she’s shaken awake by Laura and given a giant steaming mug of ultra-strong coffee. Not halfway through the cup, she’s set upright in a chair at the corner of the room so that a chatty man named Juan – or possibly Jorge or Diego, she honestly doesn’t remember – can begin doing her hair.

“Is a mess,” he complains in thickly accented words, the note of disgust his voice holds staunchly off put by his trilling laugh. Tessa simply rolls her eyes and continues to silently sip at her coffee as he detangles the mass of curls she’d neglected to brush out after her shower. Once her mug is empty, Laura returns to pluck the cup from her grasp and replace it with a glass so full of champagne that the sparkling liquid nearly sloshes over the rim of the flute as she brings it carefully to her lips.

Once Mateo – close enough for a barely conscious woman to recall – finishes working his magic on her hair, she’s ushered into another, far more brightly lit room where Nat and Wanda sit happily chatting away through perfectly painted lips. Tessa had only had her makeup done by a professional one other time in her life – ironically that too was at the behest of Pepper, just prior to her first ever Stark Industries meet and greet _slash_ Tony Stark billionaire extravaganza. But that had been a true _event_ , filled with hundreds of people, including celebrities and officials and individuals so intimidating in their dress and manner that she needed all the help she could get to just _look_ like she belonged. This time, when the topic was broached, she scoffed at the unnecessary expense – _It’s just_ us.  But the moment she sits down in front of the mirror, she thanks her lucky stars that someone with experience – and makeup thick as spackle – is here to take care of her.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” the tiny brunette in front of her says as she begins sweeping concealer over her ruddy skin.

Natasha steps up and looms over her shoulder, peering speculatively at Tessa’s reflection. “At least the hives are mostly gone,” she mutters, causing an involuntary cringe to roll over the _blushing_ bride’s reddened face. Seeing her reaction, Nat offers up a soft and sincere smile as her eyes connect with Tessa’s in the mirror. “Your hair looks great,” she says, softly fingering the mass of waves loosely pinned up at the base of her skull. She leans down a bit, her bright red lips almost touching Tessa’s earlobe, and she whispers, “You’re going to look perfect. I promise.”

It seems like forever before her makeup’s done. Another cup of coffee somehow makes it into her hand just as she begins to feel like she might again doze off. But as soon as the lovely woman who magically transforms her into a beautiful bride rather than a tragic outpatient – who’s name, of course, she’s entirely unable to retain in her lingering stupor – leaves, she actually starts to feel almost human again, her mind slowly clicking in place, the world coming into focus, as Pepper helps her step into her dress.

They’re getting down to the wire now, having already pushed things back a bit to give Tessa more time to sleep off the plethora of allergy meds. So both Natasha and Laura have already snuck off to join the party out on the terrace. It’s left to Wanda to delicately do up all twenty two buttons that line the back of the pale pink dress, while Pepper lightly fluffs the tulle skirt and picks at the lace appliques to ensure that everything lies just right.

“Didn’t think you could get away with white, eh?” Tony quips from the doorway, pulling dirty looks from all three women. He merely chuckles as he saunters in the room, his mirthful eyes gradually turning hazy as a sort of wistful quality pulls over them. He looks up and connects with Tessa’s nervous gaze. “You look beautiful, kid.”

A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Thanks,” she mutters softly, her fingers gliding over the lace flowers adorning her flowy skirt.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his tone deepening just enough to denote a hint of concern.

She chokes on a small, trite laugh. “Like I just woke from a coma.”

“Sleeping Beauty,” Wanda murmurs in her ear as she does up the final button. “All ready for your prince.”

Tony rolls his eyes so dramatically that he nearly falls backward, his head lulling heavily. “God, that was terrible. I knew I shouldn’t have come in here.”

Pepper laughs lightly and pops a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’m going to go make sure that everyone’s ready,” she says, grabbing Wanda’s wrist and tugging the girl behind her. “You have five minutes,” she issues out over her shoulder before disappearing through the door.

“Well,” Tony breathes out as he turns back to face her. “You ready?”

She nods, breath catching a bit as she utters, “Yep.”

A sly smile crosses his features. “You sure?” he asks, obviously catching the anxious quirk. He takes a step closer and says, a teasing twinkle in his eye, “I can have the jet ready before they start playing _Here Comes the Bride_. Just say the word.”

“Ugh,” she moans with a disgusted frown. “They’re not really gonna play that, are they?”

He shrugs. “How should I know? I just put together the playlist for later.”

“So I should expect my first dance to be to something by Black Sabbath?”

“You should be so lucky,” he says with a raised brow. “Saving that for my own wedding.”

She breathes out a quick snigger, dropping her gaze down to her pale silky shoes, just barely peeking out from the tulle of her dress. “Can I ask you something, Tony?”

“Of course,” he replies, gently taking hold of her fingertips and giving a quick squeeze.

“Do you think it’s too much?” She glances back up and notes his patient expression, face blank as he – _for once_ – suppresses the urge to speak and instead waits for her to go on. “Am I… saddling him with too much? Being a mutant… being…” She shrugs and averts her eyes again. “I don’t know… me?”

He nods thoughtfully. “You are a lot to handle.”

Her face cracks into a small grin. “Ha, ha.”

He gives her hand a slight tug, an obvious request for attention, and she returns her gaze to his. “I think anyone would be lucky to be _saddled_ with you.”

“But…” She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and gnaws at it for a brief moment before letting it drop into a distinctive pout. “You don’t think I’m too… screwed up?”

He lets out a thick _psh_. “We’re all screwed up, buttercup. That groom of yours is one of the most screwed up people I’ve ever met. And I was raised by Howard Stark.”

“You do realize I’m giving you the opportunity to talk me _out_ of this right now, right?” she asks with a raised eyebrow and a light tone.

His lips curl into a reluctant smile. “Look. I don’t like _Bucky Barnes_ ,” he utters with an almost disgusted intonation. “But I do like the effect he has on you.” He reaches out and takes both of her hands in his, twines their fingers together gently and gives a small tug as if to say, _listen up and listen good_. “Each and every one of us – whether we’re mutants or just plain old billionaire geniuses, whether we’re screwed up or… I don’t know, whatever the hell Cap likes to think he is – each of us should be willing to accept whatever little scraps of happiness come our way. It took me a long time to see that. And to see what happiness really was… _is_.” He drops her hands and takes a long stride back, raises an appraising brow as he stands tall and proud before her. “If that joker makes you happy – even the slightest bit – then you should absolutely marry him.”

She nods slowly as she takes in his words, takes them in and really, truly thinks about what happiness is, what it means to her. Sometimes she gets so overwhelmed by the _energies_ of others that she loses sight of her own feelings, her own concept of joy or peace… or happiness. But then she’ll taste a freshly baked croissant, or smell the sterility of a scrubbed down lab, or see Eddie arch his back wide as he stretches out in a swath of sun. Or she’ll hear Bucky’s laugh. Or taste his skin. Or smell his apple pie baking at Christmastime. Or see his pale blue eyes shine as they lock onto hers. And she’ll feel… well, she’ll just plain _feel_.

A small, shrewd laugh escapes her lips as she lets out a long-held breath. “Okay,” she mutters plainly, nodding definitively. “You’ve talked me into it.”

000

When she rounds the corner on Tony’s arm, her stomach drops. The terrace is set up beautifully with bouquets of tropical flowers lining the railings, and the people she loves most lining her path. Well, _most_ of the people she loves most. Her smile fades just a bit as she thinks about those who aren’t here today. Those who couldn’t be here. And for a brief moment she feels utterly ridiculous to be standing in this paradise, all made up and pretty and bright and hopeful, while the world outside – the world her family is struggling to survive in – slowly crumbles.

For a moment she thinks that she’s the most selfish person in the world, and the most naïve… to think that something like a wedding would even be appropriate right now, let alone a _good_ idea. For a moment, she wants to turn tail and run.

But then she sees him.

At the other end of the terrace, with the pink and orange and lilac hues of the setting sun creating a backdrop, two men stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder. One is easily recognizable. Steve stands staunchly upright, shoulders back, chest out. He’s wearing a light gray suit, but he looks every bit the soldier – the _captain_ – and she can almost picture him in his Army dress uniform before her.

The other man… Her hand flies up to her mouth, attempting to cover as she makes an awful snorting noise, choking on a laugh that could just as easily have come out as a sob. There he stands, her fiancé – her _groom_ – wearing the deep blue suit that she had picked out. The one that he claimed was, “not my favorite.” On his face is a nervous smile… on his _clean-shaven_ face is an achingly sweet, nervous smile. Her eyes begin to tear as she takes in his closely shorn hair, the dark waves she’d run her fingers dreamily through for years now cropped and mostly gone. He’s a stranger. A beautiful, unrecognizable stranger who – somehow she knows – is absolutely meant for her.

“Crying already,” Tony teases in a near whisper as he nudges her with his elbow. “C’mon,” he urges, tugging her arm closer to his side. “We don’t get to bust into the rest of the champagne until this ceremony’s over and done with.”

Bucky’s breath stills in his chest the moment he sees her. Delicate and elegant and graceful in light pink lace. She’s never looked more beautiful, he thinks. Though, admittedly, that might have more to do with the blissful glint in her shimmering eyes than her hair or makeup or flowy dress. He aches to pull her into his arms, his hands slowly fisting by his sides in an attempt to dispel the burn. It’s not as though there’s actually an aisle for her to walk down. And it’s really only a handful of steps before she’s at his side. But it all seems to move in slow motion for him. Her flowy skirt billows around her legs as she walks, short strides slowing her pace, keeping her from him just a fraction of a second too long.

“You cut your hair,” she mutters softly as she steps up beside him. Dropping Tony’s arm, she reaches up and runs her fingers through the newly short locks, releasing a breathy giggle that sounds utterly melodic to his ears.

“You said you wanted to make love to a stranger on your wedding night,” he says, nervous smile disappearing, morphing into one of pure joy the moment her hand drops down to cup his smooth cheek. “Figured this was easier than hunting someone down.”

Tony clears his throat. “You know we can all hear you, right?”

Without looking away from Bucky, Tessa raises her left hand to Tony’s chest and gives him a firm shove backward, strong enough to set him to stumble. He raises a pointed, warning finger at her – his expression mockingly severe – as he retreats to go stand among the onlookers.

Steve clears his throat, a playful smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Should we get started?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he looks Tessa’s way. “Or do you want to keep petting him?”

Her fingers card through his hair one more time, lingering there for just a fraction of a moment before she drops her hand with a sigh. “The floor is yours, Captain.”

“Thank you,” he says with a quick nod.

But before he gets started, Bucky tosses up a stern _hold on a minute_ finger as he leans in close to his bride. “Hey,” he whispers, voice low and just for her. “Are you okay?”

She gives a quick dismissive wave of her hand, rolling her still glistening eyes. “I’m fine. Stupid fruit…”

Steve watches the exchange, patiently waiting for Bucky’s expression to soften and the worry to drop from his gaze. When his friend looks over at him, he simply raises his brows, a silent question – _You ready?_ Bucky gives a barely perceptible nod, and Steve breathes in a deep, steadying breath before glancing out at the group gathered before them.

“I’ll be honest,” he begins, crooked grin growing wide. “Growing up with Bucky… I was never really 100% sure that he’d end up settling down and getting married.” He narrows his eyes at the man in front of him, speaking just to him when he utters, “I wasn’t entirely sure that any woman would be crazy enough to settle down _with_ you. And… I don’t know,” he offers with a shrug. “If you had come back from the war… I don’t know that you would’ve found someone. Because this crazy girl,” he chuckles, flipping his thumb in Tessa’s direction, “is obviously the one that’s meant for you. And she wasn’t even born until you were seventy.”

There are a handful of soft snickers that pepper the air around them, as well as an amused snort from the bride herself. Steve turns and locks eyes with Tessa, the two sharing a quick, amused glance before his expression shifts to something more earnest.

“Bucky had to travel through time to find you,” he tells her, holding her gaze. “He had to sleep for decades just so that when he finally woke up, he’d be waking up next to you.”

She inhales sharply and shifts her eyes away – his stare too sincere, too intense – to keep from tearing up. Steve ducks his head bashfully, not having intended to make this difficult for her, of course, but also somewhat pleased with himself for breaking through her tough exterior.

He chuckles under his breath before looking out among their friends. “Tess doesn’t like to get emotional. She’s too cool for that,” he teases. And nearly everyone in the small crowd nods in agreement. “Too tough – or too _scientific_ – to _feel_ like the rest of us.” She shoots him a dirty look, which only makes his coy grin grow. He shrugs and says to her, “Call it like I see it.”

“It’s not too late to bring in a justice of the peace,” she deadpans, warning expression crossing her face.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, letting out a quick, hardy laugh. Then he cheats out again, scanning the faces before him, and regathers his thoughts before forging on. “Something else about Tessa… for as long as I’ve known her, she’s spoken in quotes. Not all the time. Just… when it counts. When she wants to say something profound. Or meaningful. Or… important. I’ve asked her why she does that, why she uses the words of others to express how _she_ feels. And she always says the same thing… _I’m a scientist. Not a poet._ ” He shrugs – “Well, I’m just a soldier. No poet here.” – and shoots her a quick smirk. “So I went on the hunt for some quotes, myself.”

He clears his throat and carefully unfolds a wad of thin sheets of scribbled-on paper. “I’ve been working on this for a while,” he admits almost bashfully as he shuffles through the flapping-in-the-breeze sheets. “I picked out a few that I thought best fit Tessa and Bucky.” He glances back up and offers a small shrug and a meek grin – “Here goes…” – and he drops his eyes back down to read aloud the highlighted compilation of quotes.

“ _Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage_ (Lao-Tzu). _Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful and endures through every circumstance_ (Corinthians 13:7). _Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same_ (Emily Bronte). _For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love_ (Carl Sagan). _If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you_ (A. A. Milne).”

He catches the soft, breathy _ah-ha_ from Tessa and pauses just long enough to look up and connect with her knowing gaze. “Winnie the Pooh,” she mutters softly, earning a slow, tender nod from the man.

Steve looks back out to their friends – family – and pulls in a slow, deep breath. “Those are some pretty great quotes,” he says, brows raised high in appreciation. “Great _words_. But the truth is, words are nothing compared to our actions.”

He looks over at Tessa, warm smile on his face.

“You jumped in to help my friend when no one else would… or could. You… _rebuilt_ him, gave him a new life. Gave him _hope_. You told me – more than a time or two – to back off when I pushed too hard, pushed him to be the Buck I knew. You gave him room to figure out who he is now, who he should be. You kept him safe and close, even when it was dangerous for you to do so. You forgave him for things that the rest of us had a hard time moving on from. You keep him in line,” he says with a raised eyebrow and mirthful wink.

“You came back for him – back from the dead. And you’ve fought like hell, through so much, just to be standing here with him right now.” He shakes his head solemnly, gaze dropping to see Bucky give her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. Steve looks back up at her, his deep blue eyes piercing into hers as he states, “No one could ever say _I love you_ better than that.” He turns to face Bucky, wide crooked smile pulling at his lips. “Go ahead,” he tells him. “Prove me wrong.”

Bucky drops his head and laughs softly, almost timidly, as a light rosiness brushes along his cheeks. “I don’t think I can,” he mutters, looking back up and throwing a quick glance Steve’s way before settling on Tessa’s face. Her brow furrows, head cocking to the side confusedly – suspiciously – as he begins to speak. “I know we said we weren’t gonna do our own vows. But I… I wanted to tell you something. I wanted to… _explain_.” He shakes his head nervously and bites out another quick, anxious chuckle.

“Growing up,” he begins, voice so low the others on the terrace have to strain to hear him over the soft ocean breeze. “My parents… their relationship was… not great. But I’d hear them say the words. _I love you_. They’d say them all the time. And it made me think, maybe that’s what love is. Yelling and fighting and hurting and… making up through tears. Then I got a little older and started watching the bigger kids in the neighborhood pairing off with different girls. And they’d talk about taking them out dancing and sneaking into alleys to get them alone. Like their whole reason for living was just to get a girl alone, like there was nothing else to think about in the world. And I thought, maybe _that’s_ what love is. Just… having fun and messing around. And not being able to think about anything other than being alone with _her_.”

He pulls in a long breath and raises his eyebrows. “Then _I_ started being the one desperate to get a girl alone. I’d jump through all the hoops to get her to go out with me. And we’d go dancing. And then we’d sneak off somewhere to kiss. And I’d think, this _must_ be love, right? It feels good, and it makes me smile, and…” He shakes his head absently – “That’s gotta be it.” – and locks eyes once again with the woman across from him.

“Then I went to war and all of that just seemed… silly and stupid and childish. First time I got hurt – piece of shrapnel sliced through my arm – and they brought me to the med tent, and this nurse came over. And she was gentle and kind, and she… took care of me. And I thought… maybe…”

He holds her hands in his, squeezes her fingers just a little bit tighter as he says, crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “But then there was you. This… funny, brilliant, fearless… You moved around me like you weren’t afraid at all. And you talked to me like I was a… a person and not just some busted _thing_.” He ducks his head a bit and lets out a soft, amused snort. “You called me _Jamie_ … and I actually liked it.” This time, she’s the one to squeeze, her thin fingers twining with his and gripping tight, pulling his gaze back up to her eyes.

“I never thought _maybe_ with you,” he says, voice deep and obviously just for her. “Never. I can’t tell you when exactly it happened. The first or the fiftieth time we kissed. The moment I realized you had a smile and laugh that seemed like they were just for me. Or maybe the moment I realized you don’t _yell_ at anyone the way you yell at me.” She rolls her eyes and he sniggers a bit under his breath. “Maybe it was when you promised to take care of me, and keep all the nightmares away.” He shrugs – “Or when you finally let me take care of you.” – and pulls in a deep, steadying breath. “I don’t know when I _knew_ , but… _you_. _You_ are what love is for me. Just you.”

There’s a small sniffle from amid the group of people gathered to his right, and he has to work to refrain from groaning and rolling his eyes when he hears Sam softly mutter, “Oh damn,” in an emotion-filled tenor.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out after a moment, the brief respite pulling soft chortles from the group in lieu of stifled tears. “Well,” he says, turning to Tessa, noting the glassiness to her otherwise bright and shining eyes. “You got anything to say to that?”

She turns to him with a stricken expression, her jaw dropping, mouth gaping and bobbing as her mind works to click into gear. Steve quirks a smile and extends his hand, holds out the scribbled compendium of quotes. “Wanna borrow one?” he asks with a wink.

She swallows thickly and shakes her head, heaves a giant breath and admits, voice clear and collected, “I’ve got one.” A sly smile pulls at her features as she turns her attention back to Bucky. Her shoulders pull up just the slightest bit, straightening her posture as she reaches out to grip tightly to his fingers – both flesh and metal – and locks onto his pale blue eyes. “ _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close._ ”

Steve’s eyes go wide, brows popping high. “That was… impressive,” he intones with a nod.

She grins crookedly – smug upturn to her lips – and announces simply, “Pablo Neruda.”

Steve smiles as he delicately folds up his notes and slips them into his pocket. “Must’ve missed that one,” he mutters. “Good catch. Almost makes me think you prepared for this,” he offers with a smirk. She rolls her eyes, but does nothing to deny his insinuation. He shakes his head and staves off another laugh before glancing out amid the small crowd. Then he settles his gaze on Bucky, bounces back to Tessa. “Should we move on? Do what we came here to do?”

The couple connects eyes, each issuing a silent question to the other – _you ready?_ Tessa raises a single brow and pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth to keep from showing off the immensely goofy grin she feels pulling at her features. Bucky doesn’t fight his off in the least, letting the wide smile wrap around his face, crinkling the corners of his bright blue eyes as he says – never looking away from his bride – “Let’s do it.”

Steve manages to make it through the vows without a single stutter or sputter, each and every word coming out clear and sincere, deep and heartfelt, begging the simple but substantial reply of _I do_.

And they do, of course. Bucky’s voice low and self-assured, just the slightest hint of a tremble, not from nerves but from unshed tears filling his throat. “I do.”

Tessa’s voice soft and delicate, so unlike the playful tone they all know so well, or the stubborn commanding one she so easily falls into. It’s light, airy, like the warm breeze blowing in off the wide-open sea. “I do.”

They exchange the rings Steve had been carrying around with him all weekend, the ones kept close, nestled in his pocket, checked in on every five minutes or so to make sure they were still there. He hands them over and watches as his 21st century best friend slides the black titanium band onto the ring finger of her groom’s right hand – _I don’t care if it’s the_ wrong _hand. I want to feel the damn thing_.

Then his 20th century best friend – oh, hell… his _brother_ – delicately slips the small, sparkling platinum ring up Tessa’s finger, twisting it a bit to nestle it in alongside the emerald engagement ring.

Steve laughs, biting back to keep the amusement to himself as he wonders how long it will be before one or the other of them loses their ring. He’s legitimately surprised Tessa’s managed to keep track of her engagement ring all these months… actually, he’s not entirely convinced that she hasn’t somehow managed to replace it with a lookalike after losing the original in a lab or forgetting about putting it in a _safe place_.

Both of his friends look up at him, their hands still linked, eager smiles on their faces, bright eyes filled with joyous, unshed tears. He clears his throat thickly and says what he’s been waiting to say for months on end. What he’s practiced in front of the mirror repeatedly for the past several days. What everyone is waiting for him to finally just spit out. He cracks a wide, beaming smile, pulls in a short breath, and issues out, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”


	37. The Bucky Barnes I Used to Know

The reception begins – oddly, considering that it’s all the same people as were in attendance the night before – with an entirely different feel compared to their _rehearsal dinner_. Perhaps it’s the fact that everyone is in semi-formal attire – the men all looking sharp and clean in three-piece suits, jackets not yet shorn, buttons not yet loosed – and the women standing tall and lovely, draped in silk and lace, heels not yet dropped, makeup not yet smudged.

Or maybe it’s the classical music playing in the background – a small string quartet looming in the corner, hired by Tony to play them through their meal and toasts before being ushered off in lieu of playlists put together exclusively by him, Sam, and Clint for dancing the night away. It could also be the fine china and crystal – where _did_ Pepper bring all this in from? – that has the group feeling like, and behaving like, prim and proper guests at a prim and proper engagement.

It’s all very unlike this strange group of people, very unlike the bride and groom themselves. Yet there’s something about it that feels… right. And nice. And _special_.

And the toasts… oh, good Lord, the toasts.

They run the gamut, nearly everyone wanting to say _something_ – and those who have no desire to speak at all, being forced to do so anyway… cue Bruce’s simple, yet utterly genuine, “Congratulations.”

But they all raise their glasses and drink to his _word_ just as enthusiastically as they do when Steve rambles on and on about how happy he is that his “two favorite people could be so happy… and be so happy together. And…” He lifts his eyes to peer out among those gathered round the long table – their closest friends. Their family. He pauses in his ramblings, clears his throat purposefully, and finally finishes with a beaming smile and a booming, “To Bucky and Tessa!”

A resounding chorus erupts – though some replacing _Bucky_ with _Barnes_ or _Sarge_ , others swapping out _Tessa_ for _Doc_ – and the soft clinks of glasses echo once more through the night.

Pepper rises then, pulling a strangely reticent Tony up along with her. She smiles brightly, but says nothing, instead nudging her fiancé – a bit harshly – with her shoulder. He sighs and clears his throat, glances across the table at the newly married couple, and – for once – finds himself without words. Tessa raises a suspicious – and teasing – eyebrow at him, and he clears his throat, narrowing his eyes as he shifts his gaze over to her husband. He raises a single, pointed finger and issues out an utterly threatening, “I’m watching you,” to Bucky, earning him a swift kick in the calf from the heeled woman at his side and a handful of chuckles from the others. Tessa chokes on a laugh herself, but the amused twinkle in her smiling eyes is quickly replaced by a tender placidity when Tony turns to her and says, in a tone so achingly sincere, “I love you best,” before raising his glass high.

They continue around the table, and Wanda tries to say something sweet as well, but the only words that manage to slip from her lips before tears clog her throat, are, “I just love you so much. And I want the _world_ for you.” But before clinking her glass with the others at the long, finely set table, she leans over and gently touches Tessa’s hand, sending a quick shockwave of _love_ – of joy and excitement and just plain loving energy – straight through to her core.

Clint regales them all with a story from not that long ago, wherein he and Bucky had a nice long talk about just what it means to be a family. To love and be loved. To feel like you belong – and would forever belong – with a certain person. The story is sweet without being cloying, funny while still being sincere, and just touching enough to bring a tear to almost everyone’s eyes… especially his wife’s.

“I second that,” is Laura’s contribution to the toasts. And by this point, everyone is just tipsy enough to celebrate and drink as though her words are the finest of all.

Natasha jumps up then, waving over the bartender who has a tray of shot glasses at the ready. “If I’m made to cry one more time tonight,” she says, tone clear and commanding, “someone’s getting kicked in the balls.”

Once everyone has been given a shot of vodka – and has quirked a confused and suspicious stare her way – she shucks her heels and climbs atop her chair. A number of seemingly heartfelt words – all in Russian – tumble out of her as she gazes down at the happy couple. Tessa’s forehead wrinkles, her brows pulling tightly together as she tries to make out the words, what little Russian she learned while in Minsk – and from living among both Nat and Bucky – helping her only to pick out _good_ and _happy_ and _love_.

The moment Natasha finishes, she raises her shot glass high, speaking in English nothing more than, “Let’s drink to love,” and leads the group in downing their shots. She then turns to Bucky, gives him a mischievous smirk and bellows out, “Gorko! Gorko! Gorko!”

Without missing a beat, he quickly slams down the empty shot glass, leans in to grab Tessa’s face with both hands, and plants a kiss on her so deep and true that it leaves her breathless.

Nat slowly steps down off her chair, aided by Bruce, as she mutters with a crooked grin, “I don’t know how many Russian weddings the Winter Soldier went to that he _knows_ that tradition, but, yeah…” She pats Bucky on the shoulder before sitting back down. “You got it.”

Finally, there’s Sam. The Falcon’s toast isn’t long at all. It isn’t filled with teary declarations of love. It isn’t part of a tradition shared among any of the oddballs sitting before him. It’s doesn’t have any stories or memories from way back when. It’s simply an achingly kind declaration that, “You two are so damn special. Alone. Together. And I think I speak for everyone here when I say, we are so lucky – and happy – that you chose to be part of this weird-ass family. I feel lucky to be part of this family. Even with Stark here.”

“Why is everybody always picking on me?” Tony whines plaintively from across the table.

Sam ignores the protest, continuing to gaze thoughtfully at the couple to his right. “I wish you both all the happiness in the world. Whether you believe it or not, you damn well deserve it. Cheers.”

And then… the party begins.

000

Their first dance is wickedly sweet. The song – chosen by Tony because neither Tessa nor Bucky actually even _thought_ about their first dance – is, well, perfect.

Bucky smiles softly as he sways with his new wife in his arms. “Who is this?” he asks, bright eyes crinkling as his brows pull together in curiosity.

She drops her head to his shoulder, unconsciously humming along. _We were born before the wind. Also younger than the sun._ “Van Morrison,” she replies, tightening her fingers around his, their intertwined hands sandwiched between their swaying bodies.

“I like it.”

They sway for a moment more, the beat growing as the song moves into the chorus. And then good old Bucky Barnes – dancing fool – comes out, feeling the rhythm shift in his bones.

_I wanna rock your gypsy soul. Just like way back into the days of old. Then magnificently, we will float… into the mystic._

His feet continue to shuffle softly as his left hand drops from the small of her back and he takes a smooth-as-silk step away, whipping her out into a twirl. The lights trained on the makeshift dancefloor catch the pink tulle of her suddenly billowing skirt, reflecting back tiny shards of beaming light – almost as bright as the look in her smiling eyes as he pulls her back to him.

“You are too beautiful for words,” he whispers in her ear, eliciting a very unladylike snort of laughter from the woman in his arms. And before she can issue any sort of denial, he spins her out again, feeling as though time slows as she smiles and laughs, leaning out into the gentle evening breeze. This time, when he pulls her to him, her back presses against his chest and he wraps both arms tightly around her middle, burying his cleanshaven face in the crook of her neck. His eyes drift shut as he feels laughter spill from her body into his, her hands coming to rest over his own as they link low around her center. “I love you,” he breathes out, laying a lingering kiss on her neck.

Chances are, the others are all watching, maybe even taking pictures or video. But she doesn’t care in the least. Turning in his grip, she slowly moves to face him, her fingers snaking up into his barely there waves – so short that she has to reach up to the back of his head instead of being able to just twirl her fingers into the hair down at the nape of his neck. She lets just the smallest amount of _energy_ swirl from her fingertips, sends a hardly perceptible flash of blue light sizzling into his skull. And she leans close to capture his lips with her own.

She pulls away slowly and he lets out a soft moan as his forehead drops to hers. “I love you too,” she whispers into him, the words utterly melodic despite feeling almost pointless compared to the _sensation_ she’s given him.

An hour later and nearly everyone is up dancing – Clint’s playlist mysteriously being the most bewitching, somehow managing to entice even the solemn Dr. Banner up for a romp. Of course, the five empty bottles of champagne hanging out in the trashcan in the corner might serve as an indication that something more than just beguiling tunes are to blame for the joyous and raucous buzz in the air.

Without words, Tony swings by the table where Bucky and Steve sit and plops down a bottle of Macallan 50-year-old scotch. “It was my dad’s,” he mumbles, tone and expression tight. “He never got the chance to bust it open.” Then he clears his throat and roughly claps Bucky on the back before disappearing to cut in among Tessa and Bruce so he can take a turn spinning the bride across the dancefloor.

Steve and Bucky share a quick look – one’s eyes showing an amused sort of suspicion, the other’s nothing but a forlorn sort of grief – before popping the bottle open. They say nothing about Howard Stark, nothing about his son either. They don’t comment on the superbly smooth whiskey biting at their tongues, nor on anything at all, really. Not for some time. They simply sit in solemn silence for what feels like a tranquil eternity, sipping at a gift from a very old friend.  

“You know how much that bottle’s worth, right?” Tessa says, suddenly looming behind them.

Bucky turns to face her, takes in the sweat at her hairline, notes how out of breath she looks. “No,” he replies, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her around to his side. “And I don’t want to know.”

She flops down onto his lap, plucking the glass from his hand. “A lot,” she mutters before taking a long, sweet sip. Her lips smack together as the heat slides down the back of her throat. “Worth it.”

Bucky absently trails his metal fingers up and down her spine, lazily caressing the dozen or so buttons holding together the slightly sweaty pink silk and lace. “You’ve really been going at it out there,” he says, stealing back his whiskey.

“Oh yeah,” she intones slyly. “I cut a mean rug.”

Steve snorts out a laugh as he leans forward in his chair to deposit his empty glass on the table. “That sounded like a potentially ageist remark.” He gives her cunning look. “Not exactly what I’d expect from someone who just married a 100-year-old man.”

“101,” Bucky corrects.

Tessa leans back in her husband’s lap to peer at him, her right hand running through his hair before slowly moving down to cup his bare cheek. “Doesn’t look a day over thirty,” she says with a frown, her fingertips lightly tracing along his cheek and chin.

He almost purrs at her, the sensation so new and blindingly delightful. “You’re the one who wanted me to shave,” he utters, making a mental note that he might just have to do this more often.

Steve lets out a short chuckle. “He looks like _Bucky Barnes_.” Bucky turns to his friend, cocking a confused brow in his direction. Steve’s grin stiffens, transforming into something subdued, almost melancholy. “He looks like the Bucky I used to know,” he clarifies, voice soft and low.

Tessa’s frown quickly vanishes as she drops her hand from his face, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and dropping her head to the crook of his neck. “Tell me all about him,” she says to Steve with a devious glint in her eye.

He laughs heartily. “You already know. How many stories have I told you about my best pal?”

She shrugs. “So tell me one more.”

“I don’t know about this,” Bucky mumbles as he downs the rest of his whiskey and shifts uncomfortably beneath Tessa.

“I could tell her about the time you set up a double date for us and then forgot to show up.”

“What?” Bucky barks, incredulous. “That never happened.”

Steve leans forward to pour some more liquor into both of their glasses. “It absolutely happened. Carol and Myrtle O’Shea.” He raises an expectant brow and waits for the names for trigger in Bucky’s brain.

“ _Myrtle_?” Tessa questions, snagging her groom’s glass and stealing another delicious sip for herself.

Bucky breathes out a short chortle. “Yeah, actually, she was the pretty one.”

“Ah,” Steve intones, slouching back in his seat. “You _do_ remember.”

“I remember those girls – cousins. They both worked at their grandfather’s bar.”

“Which is where we supposed to meet them for our date. Only _you_ never showed. And little old me was left to explain to the whole O’Shea clan.”

“I don’t remember that,” he argues flippantly, sipping at his scotch.

“I thought they were gonna kill me,” Steve muses. He turns to Tessa, bright blue eyes boring into her. “The O’Shea family was filled with trouble. Almost all boys. They either worked at the old man’s bar, or worked out of the back doing _other_ things.”

“Ooo,” she intones, face brimming with fascination. “The Irish mob.”

Bucky snorts loudly in her ear. “Hardly. They were two-bit hustlers. Too stupid to figure out to make any real money.”

“But not too stupid to see that some punk from a few blocks down stood up Myrtle. And fixed her cousin up with some kind of joke.”

Tessa frowns mockingly. “Oh, poor baby Stevie.”

“You’re damn right.”

“I’m still not convinced any of this really happened,” Bucky says with a smirk.

“I had to tell them you _died_ ,” he intones. “Said a streetcar took you out the day before. Myrtle actually cried. So did Carol… but I think that might’ve been because I tried to comfort her and asked if she still wanted to have dinner.”

The laugh that bubbles out of Tessa’s throat is enough to put a smile on Bucky’s face, even if he can’t remember a damn thing about… “Wait a minute. Is that why she slapped me in front of the dance hall and called me a lying, no good bum?”

“Yeah, probably.”

He leans back heavily, “Huh,” falling from his parted lips as mangled memories flit through his mind. “I don’t know why I would’ve stood her up…”

“How pretty was she?” Tessa asks, a sly lilt to her voice.

He glances over at her. “Nothing compared to you,” he says with a cocky eyebrow raised.

She nods slowly. “Good answer,” and drops her head back to his shoulder.

Steve grins wildly, shaking his head. “You didn’t show up because you were with Sandy Richmond and you… _forgot_.”

His eyes blow wide. Sandy Richmond. Now Sandy he definitely remembers. Tall, curvaceous blond with spiral curls and bright red lips. _Crimson Dream_ , she’d told him once, spilling the secret of her always-present deep red lipstick. _Crimson Dream_.

“Shit,” he mutters absently, thinking back on his short, but _blissful_ time with Sandy Richmond. He pulls in a long, deep breath, issuing it back out through his nose as he sits upright, distractedly shifting Tessa in his lap. “Sandy Richmond…” Her name slips out in a dreamy sigh as he shakes his head slowly back and forth. “That would’ve been worth getting hit by a streetcar.”

Steve chokes on a laugh – in part because he remembers that whole _affair_ , and in part because he sees Tessa’s face harden, her eyes suddenly burning. She reaches down and pinches Bucky – hard – on his inner thigh, causing him to jolt so fiercely that he almost chucks her from his lap.

“Ow!” he shoots out, instinctively tightening his metal arm around her to keep her from falling. “Damn,” he mutters, rubbing absently at his thigh with his other hand.

“You’re a jerk,” she mutters, biting back a laugh as he looks at her with shock.

“Believe me, doll, if I wanted to marry Sandy Richmond, I could’ve.”

“ _Psh_. In your dreams,” Steve interrupts blithely.

Bucky’s gaze never leaves Tessa’s face. “I chose _you_.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “If _Sandy Richmond_ ,” she starts, uttering the woman’s name in disgust, “is even still alive right now, she probably looks a withered old prune and spends her days yammering nonsense at nurses who she’s convinced are stealing her stuff.”

Steve huffs a quick laugh from across the table. “Ouch.”

“She smells like menthol and leaves her teeth sitting in a glass of water beside her bed,” she goes on, eyes boring into Bucky. “She probably thinks that Angela Lansbury is stopping by to play canasta when they leave reruns of Murder She Wrote on in the rec room.” She positions her face barely an inch from his as she states, “Choosing me over _that_ doesn’t say much.”

His eyes positively gleam when he counters with, “I like canasta.”

She throws back her head dramatically. “Ugh! You’re the worst. I don’t know why I ever married you.”

And he tugs her closer to his chest, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his voice filled with mirth when he whispers into her ear, “Same reason Sandy Richmond used to climb up my fire escape… I make you feel _good_.”

Steve pretends he doesn’t hear _that_ , letting his gaze trail off towards the dancefloor where only Tony and Pepper remain, moving in a slow rhythm to a song he doesn’t recognize. “I’d prefer that all the weddings I perform stick,” he mutters over the top of his drink. “So you two better get along.”

“Yeah,” Bucky intones playfully. “I’d like to _get along_ too. When do we get to leave this place and start a party of our own?”

She leaps up from his lap, a joyous smile on her face. “After cake!” she nearly shouts, reaching out and taking hold of his wrist to haul him up from the chair.

He groans dramatically, leaning further back so that she has to struggle even more. He watches as her bare feet begin to slip and slide along the smooth wood slats, getting caught up in her long dress. “I don’t want to do cake,” he whines. “Haven’t all these people _watched_ us enough?”

“Cake!” she announces again, tugging harder.

He finally relents, rising so swiftly that she doesn’t have time to right herself, momentum causing her to fall backwards. He moves fast enough to step over the top of her and grab her at the hips, slowly hauling her upright. “You’re a danger to yourself,” he mutters – not for the first time – shaking his head fondly. Then he drapes an arm around her waist and leans in to whisper to her, “I’m gonna shove that cake in your face and lick it off.”

She pulls away and looks at him with a rather shocked – yet utterly delighted – expression. “You would do that? In front of _Steve_?” she teases.

He shrugs. “I’m tired of waiting. If he wants to watch me _taste_ my wife – ”

She slaps at his chest playfully. “Dirty old man,” she mutters, turning away from him and moving towards the little table in the corner where the tropical-themed wedding cake sits, glowing in all of its bright and beautiful colors. He pulls up behind her, wrapping his arms tightly around her middle, making it difficult for them to walk. Once they reach the table, she leans back into him, voice low and husky as she says, “I’ll set aside a piece for later… let you lick it off my _shield_.”

Then she gives him a quick wink and pulls away so they can – chastely – cut their wedding cake among their friends.

000

Between the alcohol, the general fatigue, and their drunken joy, they’re each tripping over the other by the time they get back to the little bungalow at the end of the path. Tessa begins to tumble forward into the bedroom and Bucky has to reach out to steady her, wrapping an arm around her middle as he ushers through the door, the two laughing incoherently as they enter.

“Wait,” she says, still giggling, her breath catching as she whips back around to face him. She pulls her face into a serious expression and holds up a single stilling finger. “Just… wait here.”

He kicks the door shut and flicks the lock without breaking eye contact. “I’m not going anywhere, doll,” he tells her with a sly smile.

“Okay,” she breathes out, stumbling over to the bathroom. She pops in, then quickly leans back out, hanging onto the door frame. “You’re gonna love it.”

“I’m sure I will,” he mutters through a chuckle as he drops his suit jacket onto the back of a chair.

“Wait!” she shouts from the bathroom. “I need help!” He spins around to find her, raises a curious eyebrow as she haltingly backs her way into the room. “I’m trapped,” she whines, her hands awkwardly reaching around and pawing at her back, trying desperately to undo the buttons on her dress.

He steps over and bats her hands away, grinning like a madman as he carefully, delicately pops the buttons down her back. He leans in and presses soft kisses to the crook of her neck, nuzzles into her hair.

“No!” she chides, playfully slapping at him and retreating to the bathroom once the final button is undone.

He stands perfectly still, watching her walk away, her shoulders wriggling and hips swaying as she works the dress off. “Should I get undressed to?” he asks with a lilt.

She peeks her head back out the doorway and gives him an assessing look, eyes slowly moving up and down his body, taking in the fitted dress pants, the shirtsleeves rolled up his bulky forearms. “No,” she declares finally. “I like this look.”

“Okay,” he murmurs as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. It’s no more than a few minutes before he sees a single, long leg extend out the bathroom doorway. Tessa points her naked toes perfectly, arching her foot as she slowly flicks her leg. “So far so good,” he jokes, his eyes plastered to the doorway.

When she emerges fully – stepping out into the low lamplight – he feels his breath catch. The bright white negligée lays in perfect contrast to her newly, subtly tanned skin. He looks her up and down, grin growing as he takes in the way the thin silk ripples with every slight movement of her body. She pulls her hair over one shoulder – the waves thicker and more pronounced after having been pinned up all night.

“What do you think?” Tessa asks as she traces her hands down her sides, looking at him from beneath thick lashes. “Do I look _virginal_?”

He raises a brow as she steps over and stands before him, settling between his legs. His hands instinctively reach up and take hold of her hips, the silk cool as it bunches beneath his fingertips. “I think you look like the most beautiful thing in the world.”

She runs her hands through his newly shorn hair. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she tells him with a crooked smile. “Bucky Barnes.”

He runs both hands up beneath the hem of her nighty, grinning wildly when the cold of his metal thumb on her naked hip causes her jump. “Call me Jamie.”

She leans down into him, her lips a breath away from his ear as she whispers delicately, just before climbing fully into his lap, “My beautiful Jamie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... I guess it's time for everyone to return to the real world now...


	38. At a Loss

“This is new,” he mutters suspiciously as he makes his way down the hall.

Over the years, Bucky had managed to find Tessa in any variety of odd situations when he ventured into her workplace. He’d seen her grumbling in her office, wearing far-too-large scrubs following a forced decontamination shower. He’d caught sight of her dancing and singing at the top of her lungs in a lab she _thought_ was empty. He’d come across her in the midst of a hissy fit – more than a time or two – as she bellowed and cursed at lab equipment that simply refused to function properly. One time, he’d even found her sitting quietly at her desk eating a _salad_. And just a few weeks ago, he’d stumbled upon her teaching Peter to play hopscotch in the hall on the 34th floor, an exercise to pass the time while they awaited some lab results.

But never before had he seen his girl like _this_. He watches her carefully as his feet gradually carry him closer, his eyes narrowing as he intently studies the way she slowly sways back and forth while looming outside her office door. A soft smile pulls across her face as she coos and prattles animatedly down at a tiny bundle cradled in her arms.

“Hey,” she beams up at him as he approaches. She leans forward a bit and tilts the baby so he can see. “This is Ian.”

Tessa’s assistant, Claire, stands by her side, gazing lovingly down at the little boy who looks to be the spitting image of his mother. She raises a finger to his tiny face and gently swipes away some spittle as she says, “Thought he was old enough to see where mommy works.”

Tessa glances up at her with a raised brow. “That’s it? You’re just… showing him around?”

“Yes, Dr. Sullivan,” she replies with practiced patience. “We’re just visiting. I’m not cutting my leave short.”

Bucky takes the smallest of steps closer and looks down at the barely awake baby. “Hey, little guy,” he coos softly, petting back some of the thick, light hair at his temple.

Tessa continues to unconsciously rock her hips back and forth as she frowns over at Claire. “But… we could set up a crib… or whatever babies need.” Her pathetic pout grows as she implores, “I’ll give you _anything_ you need. Hell, you two can move into the Tower if you want.”

“I doubt Leon would like that,” she says, speaking of her fiancé, before turning her attention to Bucky. A small smile quirks at her lips as she watches the giant man bend awkwardly over her son to gently stroke his cheek. “Do you want to hold him?”

He straightens quickly upright, eyes wide as he sputters out, “Oh, uh… no. No, that’s okay.”

Tessa rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Of course you do,” she says blithely. “You’re practically drooling on him.” She shifts the baby in her arms and steps closer to her husband, carefully transferring the bundle into his hesitant hold.

It’s the metal arm. That’s what has him all aflutter. Sure, it’s been… decades since he’s held a baby. But he really has no qualms about the action of it. Hell, when he was a kid, he used to easily balance his baby sister on his hip while heating up her bottle in the afternoons as his mom worked odd jobs around the neighborhood. But he never had to worry about potentially crushing Becca with a bionic hand. Aside from the initial fleeting panic over the possibility of dropping her, he had never once thought he would – or _could_ – hurt her.

At that time in his life, he had yet to even throw a punch, let alone assassinate hundreds of people. How times have changed…

But the moment that Ian lands in his arms, a long-latent sort of muscle memory takes over. He doesn’t want to use his left arm to accept the infant, doesn’t really even want it to get anywhere near the fragile little thing. Which is why an almost imperceptible sigh of relief escapes him when his right arm so easily takes over, bringing the baby up to his chest all on its own, cradling him comfortably against him.

“Hey there,” he mutters softly into the boy’s feathery hair. Ian lets out a tiny yawn and stretch, and then curls in close, pivoting his head into the crook of Bucky’s neck, pressing his warm, baby-soft skin against him. “What a snuggler,” he eases out in a tone that Tessa’s pretty sure she’s _never_ heard from him before.

“Snuggling is one of the things he does best. Right up there with eating and pooping,” Claire declares, coy smile growing as she takes in just how enamored Bucky seems to be with her son. She turns to Tessa and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, no,” rushes out of her as her hands fly up. “Absolutely not.”

Claire’s grin remains steadfast. “Why not? You too are married now.” She turns to Bucky to say, “Congratulations, by the way.” And he gives her a quick nod by way of a _thanks_ as he continues slowly swaying and rocking the baby in his arms.

Tessa’s posture straightens into an almost defiant stance. “Which is more than Ian can say of his parents,” she snipes, an insolent expression pulling at her features.

Claire simply rolls her eyes at her boss’s attempted deflection and choses to drop the playful ribbing. Instead she responds by asking, “Have you decided if you’re changing your name or not?” The question draws Bucky’s attention, his eyes popping up suddenly and bouncing between the two women in front of him as he too awaits the answer. “It’ll be a lot of work updating it throughout the system, so if you plan on doing it, you should let Lacey know now.”

“Lacey?” she frowns, uttering the name of the temp. “I don’t want Lacey to update anything. I want _you_.”

Bucky issues out a small snort, his voice still soft and soothing – parted lips lingering just above the baby’s head – as he says, “I don’t know why she married me in the first place. You’re clearly the one she loves most.”

Claire lets out a small, delicate-sounding chuckle as she steps towards him. “I’m just glad you two took off to elope. I was afraid I was going to be saddled with planning your wedding.”

Ever so carefully, Bucky slides forward to deposit Ian back into his mother’s arms. “And chances are, if we had a kid, she’d look to you to raise it.”

They both glance over at Tessa, who simply gives a smug shrug in response.

“Well,” she starts, leaning down to secure the baby in his carrier, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m getting practice then.” She straightens back up, carrier in hand. “I’ll be back in four weeks,” she tells Tessa, the statement uttered deliberately. “Just four more weeks.”

She groans pathetically. “I’ll never make it ‘til then. It’s been too long already.”

Claire simply smiles at her, refusing – as per usual – to allow herself to be manipulated by the woman’s whining. “You’ll survive. Now you two have fun on your date night,” she says with a wink before slipping easily between them and heading down the hall.

“Date night?” Bucky mutters as both their gazes follow the duo out.

Tessa shrugs. “That’s what she calls it when you come into the city to have dinner with me. You know, because it’s _so_ rare. Just like a date night for an old married couple.”

He frowns deeply. “We’ve only been an old married couple for two weeks,” he snarks under his breath.

“I know. It’s been absolutely draining.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes. “Go get your stuff. I’m starving.”

000

The restaurant they choose is practically empty, which is actually kind of nice. Typically, when they go out in the city, half of the night is spent with Bucky complaining about all the people. It would make Tessa crazy if she didn’t know that his grumbling was borne from a rather well-founded fear of being able to adequately ensure their safety amid a crowd.

They order drinks as they’re seated, and Bucky attacks the bread basket within the first five seconds of its arrival. And then – for the next several _long_ minutes – they find themselves trapped in an uneasy sort of silence. It’s most assuredly not the typical contented quiet that often surrounds them as they relax into each other’s company. Nor is it simply the subdued calm that occurs at the end of a long and tiresome day. No. There’s something strange about this silence, something… wrong.

Tessa stares long and hard at Bucky’s tight features, his grim frown and downcast eyes. She sips at her drink while wordlessly willing him to look up… to look at her, talk to her, _be_ here with her. She feels a knot start to form in her gut as she opens herself up and begins to feel the darkly muddled energies sloughing off of him.

“What?” she asks finally, the single word being proffered with a fed-up intonation, despite the dread that lies beneath it. His eyes jolt from the tablecloth to her face, but he says nothing. “What?” she repeats. “What is it?”

He pulls in a long, deep – portending – breath. “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” she utters hesitantly. Then, narrowing her eyes warily, “You’re not going to ask for a divorce already, are you?”

He shoots her an annoyed glare.

She sifts through the energies emanating off of him, sensing fragments of guilt, of fear. Above all others looms an overwhelming sense of hesitation, as though whatever it is that they _need_ to talk about is a topic she is not going to be happy to have broached. “This isn’t about…” Her posture stiffens as she works to figure out what might have him so on edge, glomming onto a single, terrifying thought. “You don’t want to have a _baby_ , do you? I mean… not _now_?”

He almost chokes on a laugh, the shock of hearing those words causing him to sputter. “No,” he says with a chortle, his face finally breaking from the serious glower. A crooked smile pulls at his features as he takes in her pale countenance and wide, horrified eyes. And he raises a thoughtful brow as he admits, “Although… he was awfully damn cute.”

“Yeah, well, so is Sam. Doesn’t mean I want to be responsible for him for the next eighteen years. And I sure as hell don’t want to breastfeed him.”

Bucky’s eyes snap shut, a tight grimace taking over as he slowly shakes his head back and forth. “I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t just say that.”

She lets out an only somewhat relieved sigh and her gaze softens, despite the disquiet creeping in behind her eyes. “What is it?” she asks again, this time softly, imploringly.

He licks his lips and looks over at her, locking onto her concerned gaze. “Steve thinks we should track down the X-Men.” He watches her carefully for a long moment, waiting for a response. When he gets none – not even a quirk to her expression – he goes on. “We’re getting nowhere, doll. On Lobe… Scofield… We’ve got nothing. Your family… they have more experience with this sort of thing.”

“What sort of _thing_?” she utters, an impudent tone peppering the words.

He lets out a long, labored sigh. “They’ve rooted out a hell of a lot more threats over the years than the Avengers have. Let’s face it, baby, we’re soldiers. We fight. The X-Men… they have…” He shifts uncomfortably while searching for the words. “Storm, Xavier, Logan… they all have _talents_ that we don’t.”

“I don’t see how controlling the weather would help us find Lobe,” she snarks, reaching out and grabbing the last roll left in the bread basket.

“Fine,” he concedes with an annoyed huff. “Not Storm. But Logan’s a tracker – ”

“Who has no scent to go off of.” She leans forward, argumentative tone dripping from her tongue. “And the Professor can only find people he’s connected with before. It’s not as though he can just… _look_ out into the collective unconscious and find these people. Unless they’re mutants.” She shrugs and looks down at her hands, watches intently as her fingers slowly tear apart the bread, piece by piece.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “He can find mutants?”

Another disaffected shrug. “Sort of. With the help of… a machine.”

“So if Lobe had any mutants… any subjects – ”

“You mean any _crop_? Any _thing_ to harvest from?” she replies bitterly, still not looking up from the pile of decimated bread in front of her.

Bucky shifts in his seat, blowing a steadying breath out his nose before going on. “If he has anyone – is holding anyone – who’s a mutant, Professor Xavier could find them? And then maybe find _him_?”

She leans back in her chair, brows knitting together as she thinks. “Maybe,” she capitulates. “But…”

“But what? It’s worth a try, right?”

She shakes her head. “They don’t want to be found. If the X-Men don’t want to be found, you and Steve aren’t going to find them.”

“What about you? Could you find them?”

“I…” she lets out an irritated huff. “I don’t know.” And drops what remains of the roll, throwing her hands into the air. “No? I mean, it’s not like they sent me packing with a burner phone for emergencies. I don’t really have a way of contacting them.”

“But…” His forehead crinkles in thought. “You said that the Professor can find people he’s connected with before, right? And he’s connected with you. Any chance that bond goes both ways?”

She shrugs again, this one even more derisive. “He said he heard me calling out to him when I was drowning.” She looks up at him with a raised brow. “I guess I could strap some weights to my feet and jump into the Hudson. See if that works again.”

He gives her an utterly unamused look. “Don’t say shit like that to me.”

“So serious,” she mocks, small, crooked smile blooming at his unease.

“This _is_ serious.” He leans forward, rocking towards her as his elbows dig into the surface of the table. His eyes drift – for the umpteenth time – around the small restaurant, taking stock of their surroundings. Looking for any potential threats. “I have a bad feeling,” he issues out in a low tone before locking back onto her eyes. “About all of this. I just… have a bad feeling.”

Tessa studies him for a long moment, takes in his grave expression and the darkness lingering in his otherwise light eyes. She doesn’t want to make light of his concerns – she feels them too. But… “Honestly, babe, I don’t want to contact them. Right now… I don’t want to talk to them. And they made it very clear that they don’t want to have any contact with me.”

“It wasn’t like that and you know it,” he argues. “They did what they thought was best. What they had to do to survive. And to keep the kids in their care safe.”

“Fine. Then shouldn’t we just… let them do that? I don’t want to put any of them in jeopardy either.”

“Neither do I,” he issues out hurriedly, still rocking nervously on his elbows. “But, baby, we need help. And this… this isn’t just about… I’m worried… I’m _scared_ … that _you_ could be in jeopardy. Don’t you think they’d want to help _you_?”

She offers another dismissive shrug. “Professor said he trusted you to take care of me. Which, frankly, is kind of insulting anyway, considering that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. But either way, he didn’t seem to think I needed his help. And in case you’ve forgotten, he’s a little bit psychic.”

He lets out an irritated huff as he flops back in his chair. Once again, his gaze begins to meander around the room. His jaw tensely ticks to the side as he sucks in the side of his cheek. Silence. Again, the two are caught in a deafening sort of silence. The waiter returns with more bread, asks if he can take their order, and nervously shuffles away when Bucky glares threateningly at him.

“What about Department H?” she asks finally, the strict quiet grating on her nerves. “Steve made it sound like you guys found a lot – ”

“Of nothing,” he interrupts harshly, turning the dangerous glare on her. “We found a whole lot of _nothing_.”

“They were… building something,” she says, trying to recall the terse debrief that Natasha gave her last week. And trying to ignore the almost frightening look her husband is giving her right now.

Bucky’s expression finally falters, a deep, tight sigh burning out of him. “They are.” He shrugs. “So what? As far as we can tell, that’s just the Canadians prepping for the mutant roundup.” He catches her flinch at his words, a pained grimace hitting her face. And he reaches out to take her hand – a comfort and apology in one small move. “There’s nothing linking any of it to Lobe. Or Scofield. Or anything that happened in Brazil.”

She nods slowly. “Atkinson is still out there? In Toronto?” He raises his brows as she speaks. “Steve said she made some contacts…”

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “She’s been up there for a few weeks now. But I don’t think she’s gotten anything.”

Tessa leans forward, rolling her hand in his grip and gently giving his fingers a firm squeeze. She looks down and watches as her thumb lightly traces the line of his wedding band, a small smile spreading across her lips as she does so. “I know this is hard on you,” she mutters softly, shifting her gaze up to meet his eyes. “I know you just… want to fix everything. So do I. And I’m not gonna lie and say that I don’t have a bad feeling about all of this too. _All_ of this.” She raises a single, somber eyebrow at him. “But I decided over a year ago that I wouldn’t let Lobe keep me from living my life. And _you_ agreed not to let anyone else out there keep us from living _our_ life when you ran off to an undisclosed location to marry me.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up just the slightest bit, the rest of his face remaining tightly pinched. “I don’t know what to do,” he mutters quietly, gaze dropping to their joined hands. “There’s gotta be _something_ I can do…”

“You can,” she chimes, forced brightness to her voice. He glances up at her and she gives him that smile – that one that’s just for him – and she says, “You can have dinner with me. And then you can come home with me. And then…” she leans forward and raises a single suggestive eyebrow. “You can binge the rest of _Orange is the New Black_ with me.”

He issues out a quick laugh, his face twisting a bit as he drops her hand and leans heavily back in his chair. “Oh, no. Baby, I spent most of my life in a prison. I don’t want to have to watch that shit.”

“Fake women’s prison,” she argues. “It’s totally different.”

“No,” he huffs, deep blue eyes locking onto hers as his face begins to relax. He stares at her for a long, hushed moment, looking so deeply into her eyes that she’s certain he can see down to her very soul. “I love you,” he says simply, softly.

But there’s a desperate edge to the words, an unspoken sharpness. An almost despairing quality that causes them to echo painfully throughout her mind – _I love you. I love you._ – as though he honestly thinks he may never get the chance to tell her so again.

000

She’s been waiting for _hours_.

Atkinson shifts uncomfortably, the mixture of gin and one too many cups of coffee setting her nerves – and her stomach – on fire. Fellow tier two team member, Tommy Reynolds was supposed to meet her in the tiny hotel bar at eight to debrief. It’s now just past eleven.

She lets out a tight sigh and checks her phone again, glaring at the clock on it as though it trudged ahead in time just to spite her. She hears the rain continue to patter outside and thinks that perhaps the weather is to blame for his tardiness. “No,” she mutters into her third cup of coffee, eyes bouncing around the nearly empty bar to make sure no one is near enough to catch her talking to herself like a lunatic. “Reynolds is to blame.”

Tommy Reynolds is a lot of things. Talented former CIA agent. Master of disguise and deception. Expert hacker. Unabashed gossip. But the one thing he is not – she noticed pretty damn quickly just training with him – is on time. Ever.

Honestly, she might not care normally if he was late. Well, no, that’s not true. Sarah Atkinson always cares when people are late. It’s one of many pet peeves that she _tries_ to bury deep down inside – her father always telling her that no one likes a Nagging Nancy. But she’s come to expect this from Reynolds. Had he been on time, she probably would’ve panicked.

_But_ she needs his report in order to determine which direction to go when meeting with Markum in the morning. So it would be great if he would just _show up_ already.

Stan Markum. For the past few weeks, she’s been working Aaron Scofield’s college roommate and first business partner. The two go way back and – if the fairly recent fishing trip photo of the two of them hanging in Markum’s office indicates anything – they remain friends today.

Their startup had, without a doubt, been the most successful venture of Markum’s career. When he and Scofield sold it to a large bioengineering firm in Germany, he had taken his share of the money and invested it in another new business, this one focused in what he had hoped would be a more profitable field than biotech – cosmetics. And he made a go of it for a while. But he’s now on the verge of bankruptcy… a tragedy for him, but a stroke of luck for Atkinson.

She found him – piecing together his history with Scofield – no more than a day after arriving in Toronto for the second time to continue their endlessly fruitless search for intel. And on that same day she found an ad for a personal assistant at his company. Lo and behold, the job was working directly for the big boss himself, his assistant having left in a tizzy when he explained that the raise he promised wasn’t going to happen. Sarah – who agreed to the proposed, rather pitiful wage without a second thought – had easily charmed her way into the position, allowing her painful dedication to organization, preparedness, and running a tight ship to shine brightly through and win him over.

She had been very nearly giddy at the time. This was her first solo foray into undercover work and she could not tamp down her excitement at being allowed the opportunity to truly prove herself. But after _weeks_ of trying to get him to talk – in any way she could – she still went back to her hotel every night _empty_.

She asked him endlessly about the good old days, tried to get him to boast about his greatest success. She attempted to bond with him over fishing, pointing to the picture of him and Scofield with two large trout that sat upon his wall. She even tried putting on a rather ridiculous push-up bra, popping a couple buttons on her blouse, and lingering over his desk for several terribly uncomfortable moments. But he simply never seemed interested. Not in reliving the past. Not in chatting about shared hobbies. And certainly not in her boobs.

That was when a new idea hit her. Cue the supremely charming, utterly seductive stylings of Tommy Reynolds. After three weeks of getting absolutely nowhere with Markum, she had asked the spy to come in and pose as a potential investor. “His company is in _desperate_ need of outside help right now,” she told him when he arrived in Toronto just a few days back. “Tell him you know about their startup. Tell him you were impressed with what both he _and_ Scofield did there, and you’d like for them to replicate it. Tell him he’s amazing and brilliant and smart, and do it with that winning, flirty smile. See if you can get him to admit where his former business partner is, or what he’s doing now. And if he _still_ says nothing… well, _seduce_ him.”

It was a simple plan, really. See if Reynolds could use his wily ways to extract intel from a lonely, hopefully smitten, failing businessman… and if that didn’t work, “Mess with his head… or his _heart_. Then I’ll come in and give him a shoulder to cry on.”

Reynolds, admittedly, didn’t think the plan held much water, even after she explained that she may be the _only_ person in Markum’s life who he actually trusts – or even really speaks to – right now, so he was bound to _talk_ to her if he was upset. But despite his opposition, they couldn’t really come up with anything better. So Sarah went on forcibly bonding with her boss during the day while the spy worked him at night.

But here it is, Sunday night, and Reynolds hasn’t checked in at all over the past few days. And she hasn’t spoken to Markum since Thursday, so she honestly has no clue how their plan has been progressing. And not knowing things is just another one of Sarah Atkinson’s many pet peeves.

She looks up at the doorway for the hundredth time and lets out a deep breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. “Finally,” she mutters – tone more relieved than irritated – when Reynolds sweeps into the room and takes a seat next to her at the bar.

“Almost sounds like you were worried about me,” he teases with a grin before spouting off an order of, “Whiskey. Neat,” to the bartender.

“I was worried about myself,” she says with a weary sigh.

“Aw, poor Sarah,” he intones. He offers a nod of thanks to the bartender when he drops off his drink, and he watches the man closely as he retreats to the opposite corner of the bar. Then, turning back to face her, he mutters simply, “Sorry I’m late.”

She gives him an incredulous look, complete with mile-high brows. “No you’re not.”

He lets out an airy laugh. “You got me.”

She shifts impatiently in her seat. “So… how’d it go?”

He lets out a long, pained sigh. “He was into me, that’s for sure. But he was… less than forthcoming with information on his good old pal, Scofield. I thought he might budge when I said that I’d only invest if the business plan included both of them. But then he just got teary eyed and started whining about how he’s never enough on his own.” Reynolds shrugs as he takes another pull of his drink, savoring the dark liquid as it burns lightly at his throat. “I told him he was right.”

“So you broke him in the hopes that I might be able to get something out of the shattered mess?” she asks, her voice a bit too high and hopeful for the callous words tumbling from her lips.

“Cold,” he mutters with a raised brow. “But, yes. I was, well… mean.”

“Good,” she says with a relieved sigh.

He gives her a chiding look. “Sarah, that’s not nice. Unrequited love is a bitch.” He leans back and takes another long sip before arching his back in a giant stretch. “Speaking of…” he begins slowly, a small sigh leaving his lips. His expression changes on a dime – mirthful energy fading into something more serious, almost grave – and it causes a frown to roll over Atkinson’s face.

She quirks her head. “What?”

He turns bodily on the barstool to face her, looks her directly in the eye. “Your boyfriend got married.”

Her brows knit together in confusion. Her boyfriend? What boyfriend? She wasn’t seeing anyone. “What?”

A small laugh escapes him as he watches her struggle to comprehend. “Sergeant Barnes and Dr. Sullivan got married,” he explains, voice calm and slow. “A couple of weeks ago. They went and eloped somewhere. Almost the whole team – the _core_ team – was gone for a few days. Including Stark.” He shakes his head sadly. “Bet it was a hell of a party.”

Sarah’s expression slowly melts, confusion giving way to realization. Then to bitter disappointment. “Oh,” she mutters with an all too forced levity. “Well… that’s nice.”

Reynolds reaches out and grabs her hand, gives it a quick squeeze. “Sorry, chickadee.”

“Tommy,” she says, trying to sound reproachful. And he drops her fingers, throwing up his hands in a yielding gesture.

“I know. I know,” he says through a tight smile. “It’s just a silly little crush.” He looks over at her and repeats – almost verbatim – the words she told him months ago when she first revealed her feelings for their commanding officer. “Just a silly little crush borne out of your inappropriate desire for unattainable men.”

A small, nervous-sounding laugh escapes her. “Exactly.”

“I am sorry, though,” he repeats, dropping a hand to her shoulder. His voice is low, sincere. “I’m no stranger to unrequited love either. I know it hurts.”

She nods appreciatively. “Well, hopefully it’ll help us out with Markum at least,” she says, an almost desperate edge to the forced cheerfulness her voice holds. “He might not have wanted to share anything before, but a broken heart can make you do all sorts of things you wouldn’t normally do.”

Tommy frowns deeply, his gaze trained on her suddenly hard, expressionless face. “Yeah,” he agrees before swallowing down the rest of his whiskey. “Yeah, it can.”


	39. The Most Powerful Specimen

It’s late by the time Bucky makes it back home, the latest – seemingly useless – debrief taking forever despite leading no where. There’s still no news on Lobe. Atkinson teleconferenced in just to alert the team that a lead she’d been working for weeks had fallen through. A possible sighting of Brecht – the mystery woman from Brazil – in New York of all places dictated most of the conversation. But even that was merely speculation and it led them to a big fat steaming pile of nothing. The majority of the meeting was spent with everyone brainstorming their next moves and working to figure out some magically never before thought of way to finally find these elusive bastards.

“Twenty-seven countries worldwide now have enhanced registries,” Steve had pointed out in a flurry of arrogance. “It’s getting easier by the day for Lobe to find subjects. What the hell are we doing?”

The answer was the same as it had been for months… silence.

We’re doing everything. We’re doing nothing.

Tessa had opted out of this particular debrief, using the excuse that she had to fly out at six the next morning with Tony to meet up with some bioengineering firm in San Francisco that they thought might be able to help out with a few of their lower priority projects. It was the first business meeting she was set to have that did _not_ revolve around the Mutant Cure. And she didn’t want to ruin that excitement by peppering in the slights and failures that always spilled out during meetings about _progress_ on Lobe.

She had saved herself from having to hear any of the dismal details, but what she had not prepared for was the possibility that gloom and doom would still come rolling into her home, threatening to steal away her peaceful night. And that it would do so in the guise of her husband.

“You look pissed,” she states matter-of-factly the moment he trudges into the bedroom.

He glares over at her, his stony eyes tracing the length of her body as she sits upright in the middle of the bed, cat purring in her lap as she flicks absently through her phone. “What are you doing?”

She shrugs casually, flipping her glasses up onto her head so they can rest by the tangled mass of curls she’d pulled into a haphazard bun after her bath earlier. “Buzzfeed quizzes,” she says, turning the phone around to face him. “Apparently I’m destined to marry Nick Jonas.”

His frown grows even deeper, the crease between his eyes caving further. “Who the hell is that?”

“Not important. You can meet him at the divorce proceedings.” She drops her phone onto the crumpled quilt, delicately shoos Eddie from her lap, and rises to her knees to crawl over to the foot of the bed. “So… good news?” she asks in a sarcastic tone.

He rolls his eyes and huffs out a deep, bitter breath. “Yeah. Sure. If no news is good news.”

“Took you four hours to cover _no news_?”

He glances behind her at the clock on the bedside table, reads 11:12. “Shit,” he breathes out, running an exhausted hand through his hair. “I didn’t realize how late it was.” He looks back down at her, perched with her knees teetering dangerously at the edge of the bed. “Aren’t you leaving at six?” he asks, shuffling just the slightest bit closer to keep her from falling. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

She smiles slyly up at him. “I am in bed.”

He reaches down and plucks the glasses from her hair, tosses them to the side only to see that on the corner of the bed lays a mostly empty bowl, obvious remnants pooling in the bottom. He quirks a suspicious eyebrow at her. “Did you eat ice cream in bed?”

“Maybe,” she says with a shrug, sidling up closer to him.

“Was that your dinner?” he asks, voice dropping in an almost reprimanding way.

She leans into his chest and wraps her arms around his middle. “I added walnuts for extra protein and omegas. Healthy.”

His chest rumbles with a quick burst of laughter, his own hands coming to rest on her shoulders, trailing slowly down her back. His flesh fingers move tenderly down along her hip, gently, casually, popping beneath the waistband of… “Are those my boxers?”

He leans back and peers down at her suspiciously, his hands pulling away, leaving behind a cold ghost of a touch. She slumps back to sit on her heels, disappointment and irritation peppering her features. “What’s with the third degree?” she intones bitterly.

The frown returns in full force, his eyes narrowing as he says, “That was my last pair. I didn’t get a chance to do laundry today.” And he spins away, picking up the felled clothes she had left on the chair by the door before moving into the hallway to start the wash.

She can hear him slam open the door to their laundry nook, knock things around to get at the detergent… slam shut the door on the machine. “Well… fuck,” she mutters to herself, falling backwards to lay splayed out on the bed. Eddie moseys over and drops down beside her, begins pawing at her hip, pulling at the fabric of Bucky’s boxers as he sets to making bread with a deep purr and a wide kitty yawn.

Bucky thumps back into the room, collecting the dirty dish from their bed, issuing out over his shoulder as he heads to the kitchen, “Don’t you have your own clothes?”

Tessa doesn’t move from her spot, barely even raises her head from the quilt when she shouts back, “You know, most guys would find this sexy.”

She hears the clink of the bowl and spoon as they’re dropped into the sink, and the steady if harsh footfalls leading back into the bedroom. “Most guys don’t have to do laundry at 11 o’clock at night just to make sure they have clean underwear in the morning.”

She pulls herself up onto her elbows and narrows her eyes at the stern-looking man leaning in the doorway. “Oh, you mean because most guys have good wives who do their laundry for them?”

He rolls his eyes and pushes off the doorframe. “Because most wives don’t steal their husband’s last pair of clean underwear.”

“You never even wear these!” she argues, sitting upright so fast that the cat screeches and flees.

He toes off his shoes, leaving them laying in the far corner of the room, and shucks his jeans. “I do if I don’t have anything else.”

“Fine,” she snipes, clumsily shimmying out of the shorts and tossing them at him. “Here.”

He catches them easily with his metal hand and drops them to the unofficial _dirty laundry chair_ beside his pants. “Thank you.”

Her hands begin to flail dramatically, a deep annoyance lighting a fire in her core. “Seriously? That’s all you’re going to say right now? As I sit here half naked?”

He looks at her for a long moment, eyes still dark and tired just as they had been when he first returned home, unreadable expression surrounding the tight frown on his face. “Get _whole_ naked and maybe I’ll have something more to say.”

She glares at him and it’s just enough to cause his countenance to break, her obvious irritation bringing a cunning, crooked smile to his face. “You’re not even going to miss me while I’m gone, are you?” she asks with a pathetic pout.

His grin only grows, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he steps back over to the side of the bed. “I always miss you when you’re gone,” he murmurs lightly as his fingers grip the front hem of her T-shirt and give a sharp tug. She stumbles forward on her knees, falling into his chest. “Have you packed yet?”

She turns her face into his neck and whines, “Of course not. I don’t have any clean underwear,” before leaning back and looking up at him with wide, regretful eyes. “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible wife.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “You’re not a terrible wife. You’re a terrible adult.”

“Hm,” she mutters, dropping her head back to his shoulder. “Your 31-year-old child bride.”

“You really should get to bed,” he intones, voice slow and low as his fingers wind into the fabric of her shirt, his thumbs lazily tracing the curves of her naked hips.

“Is this your way of soothing me to sleep?”

He leans back just the slightest bit and peels off her T-shirt, tossing it to the floor before crawling onto the bed and over the top of her. “You don’t seem very tired. Maybe I should do something to wear you out?”

She snorts out a laugh as she shimmies closer to the center of the bed. “I don’t need to sleep. I’ve got a nice sugar high going here.”

Her hands thread into his hair – just enough length left for her to wind loosely around her fingers and tug at – as he holds himself over the top of her, peppering her neck with soft, warm kisses. “Yeah,” he mutters into her ear, nipping gently at her earlobe. “You’ll be good to go right up until you slip into a diabetic coma.”

“Oh,” she drones, writhing dramatically beneath him. “It’s so hot when you talk _doctor_.”

A quick, rough chortle chokes out of him, small sputters spilling from his lips as he drops heavily onto her, arms wrapping loosely around her middle. “What?” he laughs out.

“It’s _hot_ ,” she repeats, wiggling beneath him and twisting her hips. He recognizes her movements as a wordless command to _move_ , so he rolls over, bringing her with him, switching their positions so that she can straddle atop him. “Makes me feel like we’re just two interns fucking in a supply closet on _Grey’s Anatomy_.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle again as he huffs out another laugh and looks up at her with something akin to amazement. “Whatever gets you going, sweetheart,” he says with a slight shake of his head.

Now it’s her turn to trail kisses along his throat, stopping just long enough to order, “Say _scalpel_.”

He does so, voice thick and deep despite the heady thread of amusement. “Scalpel.”

“Say _superior vena cava_ ,” she demands next, her tongue tracing along his Adam’s apple as his throat vibrates with the words.

“Superior. Vena. Cava.”

“Say _immunologic adjuvant_.”

He laughs heartily, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her, swallowed up by her lips as they press into his. She pulls back barely an inch and waits. “Immunologic adjuvant,” he recites perfectly, smug brow cocked. “Now give me some of that medicine, doctor,” he intones deeply, fingers dancing along her ribs, eliciting the highest, most perfect peal of laughter he thinks he’s ever heard.

000

The next morning begins with a start, a sharp and sudden, “Ow!” sounding over the shifting of the heavy corner chair as it loudly scrapes along the hardwood floor. Bucky bolts upright in bed, eyes wide – if still filled with sleep – as he peers across the dark room. “Damnit!” Tessa barks out as she awkwardly cradles her foot while balancing on one leg.

He lets out a deep, tired groan when he sees her, relief flooding his veins as he realizes she must’ve merely stubbed her toe. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice heady with sleep, as he reaches out and flips on the bedside lamp.

She hops around to face him. “Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.”

He flops back down onto the pillows behind him and lets out a tight yawn – “Good job.” – before rolling onto his side to watch as she swiftly tosses a shirt into her bag.

“Sorry,” she mutters again, awkwardly hopping to the other dresser to pull out a bra.

His brow furrows. “I didn’t finish the laundry,” he murmurs, only now remembering his decision to ignore the ding of the washing machine last night, far more eager to remain tightly curled around his naked wife. He slowly pulls the covers away and crawls out of bed. “Thought you didn’t have any clean underwear,” he hums into her hair as he squeezes past her on his way to move the load into the dryer.

“I don’t.”

His head pops back around the doorway, eyes narrowing suspiciously as they roam down her body, taking in the barely knee-length skirt. “What are you wearing now?”

She shrugs.

He steps back into the room and glares at her. “What does that mean?” he asks of the shrug. “Nothing?”

She zips up the bag and lets out a wide yawn. “It was that or the edible panties Natasha got me for my non-existent bachelorette party. Figured it’d be more professional to just go commando.”

Bucky cringes and drops his head despondently. “Baby, you can’t wear a skirt with no underwear. Not to a business meeting. I really shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“So you _want_ me to wear the edible panties?” she challenges with innocent-seeming eyes.

“No. I want you to wait ‘til the laundry’s done and wear some _real_ panties.”

Her nose crinkles in something akin to disgust. “I don’t like that,” she states, shaking her head. “Don’t say _panties_ ever again.”

“Baby…” he starts, voice thick with impatience.

But before he can utter another word, Friday’s soft speech fills the room. “Dr. Sullivan? Mr. Stark is waiting for you in the hangar.”

“Thank you, Friday,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Bucky as if to say, _See? I don’t have time_.

He simply stares at her. “You’re not leaving here like that.”

She moans dramatically and strips off the fitted, gray suit jacket, dropping it to the floor before stepping out of the skirt and letting it pool beside it. “Fine. I’ll wear pants.”

He watches as she tugs on a dark navy pantsuit, the pencil pants laying tight against the bare skin of her ass. He rolls his eyes. “You’re going to spend the next two days without any underwear? That’s your game plan?”

“They sell underwear in San Francisco. Besides – ”

“Dr. Sullivan?” Friday interrupts again.

Bucky glances up at the ceiling – as though that’s where the AI resides – and bellows heatedly, “No!”

“I’m sorry… no?” the disembodied voice asks.

“And shouldn’t it be Dr. _Barnes_?” he counters, hands on his hips as he cocks his entire face upwards. “Can’t you change that in your… system?”

“Actually, no, Sergeant Barnes. Personal identification information must be updated manually by the employee. And then approved by Mr. Stark.”

He tosses Tessa an irritated look. “I thought you said you were changing it.”

She shrugs as she pulls her packed bag over her shoulder and gathers her computer bag and Gucci heels into her other hand. “I will,” she says casually.

“Dr. Sullivan?” Friday inquires again.

“Barnes,” Bucky breathes out through tightly gritted teeth, even as Tessa responds with a simple, “Yes?”

“Mr. Stark has informed me that he’s begun to slowly pour out your coffee. If you don’t hurry, there won’t be any left.”

She shakes her head and says with a huff, “I hate him.” Then steps hurriedly in front of Bucky and places a quick kiss to the corner of his deeply downturned lips. “But I love you.”

He grabs at her as she spins away, the fabric of her jacket slipping easily from between his fingers as she hurries away from him and down the dark hall. “I love you too,” he mutters with annoyance just as the front door falls shut.

000

“I’m not saying that I’m not _open_ to the idea. I just don’t understand why you think we _need_ help from an outside firm,” she whines for the umpteenth time since they left the compound this morning.

Tony glares at her – not for the first time either – and shakes his head as he continues down the long, empty halls. “I’m gonna take a stab in the dark and say that _somebody_ didn’t get enough sleep last night,” he tosses glibly over his shoulder. “Very crabby.”

Tessa rolls her eyes and hoists the messenger bag with her laptop higher onto her shoulder. “I’m serious, Tony. We don’t need any outside consultants.”

He stops short, causing her to almost ram into his back. “Networking,” he announces as he turns to face her. “Building relationships. Investing. That’s what business is all about.”

Another eye roll. “Thanks for the lesson. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t care about the business side. It’s bad enough that I’ve been forced out of the lab as much as I have been already.”

He spins around to continue his trek down the empty hallway. “Don’t know what to tell you, buttercup. You’re on the board, so you’re gonna get the business side whether you like it or not. And… Dr. Falstein wanted to meet you _specifically_.” He turns to face her, treading backwards at the same pace, and offers a teasing wink when he says, “You’ve got fans.”

“I’ve never even heard of Falstien,” she whines again. “Or Schmidt-Muller Technologies.”

“Small biotech firm out of Berlin,” he recites, his voice echoing off the walls. “I gave you the file. You said they were working on some impressive projects.”

“Yeah,” she mutters blandly. “Still…”

“Where the hell is this place?” he mumbles almost to himself. Schmidt-Muller had requested the meeting take place in their new facility – a sprawling office complex far off the beaten path that they were planning on gutting and turning into lab space. They were hoping, Dr. Falstein’s assistant had explained over the phone, that he and Dr. Sullivan might give them some tips, seeing as how they had put together such a successful lab of their own up in Seattle. “I’ve already forgotten what room we’re even looking for.”

“Conference 102.”

They continue on in silence for the next few minutes until _finally_ stumbling across the intended conference room. The door swings easily open, but the room is empty – not just of people, but devoid of any furniture as well. “Wrong room?” he asks simply as his eyes scan the large space.

Tessa shrugs and turns to step back into the hall, make sure the number on the door is correct. But before she can make it out, a blonde woman – about her same size and build – sweeps into the room, nudging her back away from the door.

“I’m so sorry,” she states hurriedly, light German accent wrapping around the words. “You must be Dr. Sullivan. And Mr. Stark.” Her smile is wide, but seems oddly cagey, as though she’s got a sort of juicy secret burning to spill from her bright red lips.

“Dr. Falstein?” Tony asks, stepping up to extend a hand. She nods cheerfully and accepts his firm handshake.

“Yes. Yes,” she mutters, eyes bouncing over to Tessa and down to her bag. “Oh, let me take that for you.” She reaches out and peels the computer bag from her shoulder, hoisting it atop her own. “Ah, yes,” she says then, still grinning like a madwoman. “We’ve switched rooms. Yes. Come along.” They follow hot on her clicking heels as she leads them to the very end of the hall. “Obviously, we’ve not entirely unpacked yet,” she tells them. But we have everything we’ll need in here.” She opens the heavy door to reveal a cave of darkness. “Oh, quite sorry,” she rambles, stepping out in front of them and sweeping into the room. “Yes. Let me just… find the lights.”

Tony and Tessa share a quick suspicious glance, but follow her over the threshold none the less.

“Yes. Here we go,” the doctor says brightly, flipping on the lights and flooding the small room with light just as the sound of the door slamming shut echoes behind them.

Tessa pulls in a tight, shocked breath at the sight of four men in deep blue uniforms standing before them, each with a rifle trained on their chests. Tony makes a move to pull a cuff from his pocket, the only piece of Iron Man suit technology he has on him – this was _supposed_ to be a business meeting after all. But the moment his fingers wrap around the metal a quick, sharp pain reverberates up his spine as a fifth man who had been lurking in the shadowy corner – probably the one who slammed the door to the windowless storage room shut – thrusts the butt of a rifle into his low back. He stumbles and falls immediately, the cuff skidding across the floor.

Tessa whips around and throws her hand out toward the figure to her right, prepares to drop him. But she loses all focus the moment he steps out into the light. “Dr. Sullivan,” he intones smoothly, wide, terrifying smile pulling across his face. “So nice to see you again.”

Her breath catches in her chest, and her hand slowly begins to drop – despite a voice in her head screaming, so damn loud, _Do it! Take him out!_ But the shock that flows through her veins stills her hand – stills her powers entirely – as a worthless warning uttered long ago filters back into her consciousness.

_If he finds out what you are, he’ll tear you apart and sell every piece to the highest bidder_.

“Well,” Dr. Falstein starts, cheery tone still permeating her words. She reaches down and collects Tony’s cuff, hikes Tessa’s bag higher on her shoulder, and says, “I think you gentlemen have things handled here,” before she walks forward… _straight through the wall_ and into the hallway on the other side.

Tony watches with wide, horrified eyes, but Tessa barely seems to notice the strange exit, her stare still fixed on the man in front of her.

“Lobe,” she breathes out simply, shoulders setting firmly as he takes another step closer.

In her periphery, she sees the soldiers close in, rifles still raised. The hairs on the back her neck stand on end as she hears slow, steady footfalls coming from the opposite corner of the room. Turning slowly, still trying to keep her eyes mostly trained on Lobe, she glances to see the approaching man. He too wears a navy uniform, though his lapels are far more decorated than the others. The closer he gets, the taller he seems, until the broad-shouldered middle-aged man is towering over her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body as he leans into her. He extends a hand across her torso, reaching out to Lobe and curling his fingers in a demanding gesture so that he might regather his weapon from the doctor.

“This is her?” he asks, voice deep and low. He hands the rifle over to one of the soldiers now by his side. “This is the _most_ _powerful_ specimen?” he inquires thickly, eyes roaming over her slight frame and rumpled suit.

At that, she steps back – once, twice – until her back slams into the closed door. Her hands hang by her sides and begin to fist and loosen, clench and drop, the motion helping to work up the sparks of energy that were chased away by her initial shock and fear. Tony slowly begins to rise, backing up as well and pressing himself to Tessa, trying to place himself in between her and the man he’s only ever seen in a handful of surveillance photos.

Lobe creeps forward, not only unimpressed by Tony’s show of protectiveness, but seemingly amused by it. “She is powerful,” he says to the man at her left, all the while, eyes boring into Tessa’s as he cocks his head slightly to see around Tony. “But that’s not what I’m most interested in right now.”

The looming officer at her side huffs impatiently. He snatches her elbow and whips her out from between the door and Tony’s body, pulling so hard and so fast that for a moment she wonders if he’s dislocated her shoulder. He flings her into the center of the room, tossing her bodily into one of the soldiers. She watches as another one steps swiftly in front of Tony, blocking his path to her.

A deep, dark energy begins to build inside of her – a swirling sort of trepidation that could only be her own, as she continues to block off all of the distracting outside forces. _Get it together, Annie_ , she hears suddenly, the words flitting through her like a warm breeze weaving through her hair. And she begins again to focus on bringing up the sparks.

“Tell us what you know about stopping the effects of MGH,” the officer demands abruptly.

The question is so odd, so unexpected that it causes her train of thought to completely derail. “What?” she utters, brows pulling tightly together, confusion covering her face.

He steps closer, nearly growls when he says, through firmly gritted teeth, “Tell me what you know.”

“I…” She stutters briefly. “I don’t know anything,” she says, her voice transforming into something bitter, stare cold.

Lobe simply looks at her as he rounds on her, cocking his head curiously to the side. “You found an inhibitor,” he states, words flowing out of him slow as honey. “At Muir Island. You. And Dr. MacTaggert. And Dr. McCoy? You found a way to stop the Mutant Growth Hormone from functioning.”

“Wait, what?” Tony pipes up, suddenly interested. The soldier in front of him takes a step back, allowing him to move to Tessa’s side. He looks to her with a furrowed brow. “You told Vargas there was no way to stop MGH from working.”

She continues to stare ahead at Lobe as she replies, chin jutting defiantly. “I did tell him that.”

The bald man smiles menacingly, bright white teeth gleaming perilously in the harsh fluorescent light. “She was trying to keep you from finding your _cure_. Isn’t that right, Supernova?”

She narrows her eyes at him, the threat burning in her core, sending a jolt of electricity thrumming through her fingertips. “Who told you about _Supernova_?” she asks with a bite.

He returns her snake-eyed glare, evaluating her in much the same way she’s now assessing him. “I knew you were a mutant the moment we met,” he issues out in a slow, measured tone. He begins to pace in a wide arc around her, eyes still dancing over every inch of her, studying her closely. “Scofield said you worked on Muir Island before joining him.” He stops his slow, methodical movements just long enough to release a casual shrug. “How many years ago was it now? How many years since the Proteus incident?”

His final words send a thick shudder rolling over her body before freezing her limbs in place yet again. _Proteus._ “Who are you?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

He leans in close, his breath hot on her ear. “I am the beginning,” he states in a soft, controlled tone, matching exactly the tenor that she still hears echo through her dreams. “And I will be the end.” He pulls away quickly, smiling at the distraught look on her face, and suddenly claps his hands together, causing both Tessa and Tony to jump. “Now then,” he utters excitedly. “Tell me about this _cure_.”

Tessa’s brain shifts into gear, blowing past the panic and surprise and fear. She pulls in a deep breath, uses a trick Wanda taught her to imagine cloaking all of the _bad energy_ permeating the room – percolating in her own gut – in a thick, impenetrable mantle.

The dramatic eye roll comes easily then, once the trepidation is pushed aside. Her shoulders drop into a relaxed posture. She glares at Lobe, narrowing her eyes so intently that she almost seems to be looking through him. “Why the hell would you want to _cure_ mutants, anyway?” she asks in a challenging tone. “I thought your goal was to spread the wealth… make their powers available to everyone.”

“Not everyone,” he says with a lilt and a small smile. “Only the ones who are _worthy_.” Then he sneers at her, the eerie smile melting into an even more horrifying, toothy expression as he issues out through tightly gritted teeth, “ _You –_ and your kind – are not worthy.” He steps back and waves a dismissive hand, his voice light again when he says, “Besides, I’m less curious about the cure itself and more curious about how you found it. Tell me, doctor, how _did_ you isolate MGH?”

“Wait…” Tony interrupts, holding up a stilling hand, his irritation causing him to lose sight of the fact that they’re surrounded by several men with very large guns. “Is all of this true?” he asks, spinning to face Tessa. “Have you been… undermining the research?”

Her gaze flicks to her right, to Tony, for just a fleeting moment before settling back on Lobe again. “I don’t have an inhibitor,” she tells him. “There’s no such thing. And I never isolated any hormone.”

The officer steps up again – the green and yellow insignia on his shoulder flashing in her periphery. “Do you think this is some kind of joke, doctor?” he hisses at her. “Do you think we’d actually be here right now if we didn’t _know_?”

She looks over at him, lets her eyes dance around his perfectly fitted uniform. “What is that?” she asks snidely, nodding at the insignia on his chest. “It’s not US military. What… Canada?” He shifts uncomfortably, but nods his assent just the same. She lets out a sharp scoff. “And we’re supposed to be afraid of _Canada_?”

His eyes widen, a hint of shock quickly giving way to a burst of fury. He says nothing – despite one of the soldiers informing him that he needs to _set the bitch straight_. He simply pulls himself up to his full, massive height and slowly raises his hand, reaching out towards the soldier standing behind her. Tessa cautiously looks over her shoulder and sees the officer give another quick, demanding flick of his fingers. The soldier complies with the unuttered request, handing over his handgun.

An odd sort of burning shoots up her spine, a portending blaze that she feels slowly creep throughout her body. Her limbs seem to vibrate. A deep hum begins reverberating in her ears. She knows what’s coming. She jerks her hands into tight fists by her sides to keep the tiny blue sparks from showing. She pulls in a deep, stilling breath… and she waits.

Her eyes are fixed on the officer, but from her periphery she sees only the gun as it makes its way over to her temple. _Try it_ , she thinks, the corner of her mouth quirking up just the slightest bit. _Go ahead and try it._

She expects him to hold the gun to her head and voice additional threats. She readies herself for the terrible blow of an angry pistol whipping. She even prepares to put her powers to use deflecting a bullet meant for her brain. What she does not expect – and what she is not at all prepared for – is for the officer to sweep the gun just past her face and fire into the man by her side in a single fast, fluid motion.

She grimaces from the sound, the ringing in her ears almost enough to drown out the hum. “You don’t need to fear Canada,” he hisses at her. “You only need to fear me.”

She looks to her side and sees the shocked expression on Tony’s face, his eyes wide and pained, his mouth falling slightly agape. His lips pull further apart as though he’s about to speak, but all that comes out is a sudden burst of blood, his violent cough spraying droplets directly into her wide open eyes.

“Tony,” she mutters plainly, only reaching out for him once his body begins to crumble. She tries to grab him, keep him from falling to the floor in a boneless heap. But he’s too heavy. _Dead weight_ , her mind hums at her as she struggles to ease him down. Her eyes are glued to his, unable to pull away from his terrified gaze.

“Sir,” she hears from behind, the voice of one of the soldiers drifting to her ears as though from miles and miles away. “Did you just shoot the Iron Man?”

She half expects Tony to roll his eyes and perk up to say, “ _The_ Iron Man? Really?” But he doesn’t seem to notice anything going on around him. His gaze is focused solely on her, asking her – pleading with her – to help.

That’s when she snaps out of her shock, eyes finally pulling away from his and roving over his body to find the injury. Her mouth slams quickly shut, jaw ticking to the side and setting in place as she prepares to get to work. “You’re okay,” she says through sharply gritted teeth, almost out of habit, her days in the ER rotation flooding back to her. “You’re gonna be fine,” as her hands peel his back so she can look at the wound in his chest.

“That seems like a bit of an overstatement,” Lobe drops casually as he begins to pace in slow circles behind her.

The officer gives her a quick kick in the hip, earning a pained grunt, but failing to cause her hands to move nor focus to break. “Tell me how to find the cure,” he shouts at her, “Or the next bullet will be in your head.”

Tony’s blood oozes out between her fingertips, warm and thick. And she hears the unsteady rattle of his wet breath. “You’re okay,” she repeats for him, working to drown out the others in the room.

“I don’t think that killing the doctor will get us very far, Lieutenant Colonel,” Lobe’s voice echoes behind her – now from even further away.

“You’re the one who said you needed her research for the serum,” he nearly shouts in response.

“And do you think I can get it by sifting through her gray matter?” he asks casually. “Kill all her friends. Every one of them. I don’t care. Break every one of her bones. Skin her alive. But _do not_ kill her.”

She hears their words, and for the briefest of moments she feels fear creep into her gut. But then she glances back up into Tony’s nearly empty eyes, and a fear far deeper and more virulent takes over. One that she’s felt before. It’s the fear of losing someone she loves, of watching them die, holding them close while they take their final breaths. It’s a fear that – sadly – she’s all too familiar with. One that she decides, each and every time it creeps beneath her skin, she’ll do anything to combat.

“He’s not gonna make it,” she hears the officer – Lieutenant Colonel – harshly whisper in her ear. He thrusts his fingers through her hair and tugs her roughly back, attempting to pull her upright, away from Tony. “He’s as good as dead.”

But she won’t let go. “No!” she yelps, swinging one arm wildly behind her and connecting hard with the side of his head. He drops her immediately and she very nearly falls on top of Tony, her face coming to rest mere inches from his.

His breaths are now nothing more than wet sputters breaking in uneven spurts. She connects with his eyes, tries to give him a reassuring look, a definitive nod, even as the man behind her rails and reaches for her again.

Her eyes remain fixed on Tony’s, the deep brown of his irises slowly being blown out by the dilation of his pupils. Her hands fist at the soaking material of his shirt, her fingers flexing almost imperceptibly to work up the sparks. She closes her eyes briefly, just long enough to pull away the mantle, to open herself up. Dangerous, terrified, angry, regretful energies bubble up from within her core, swirling in and out and all around her… tearing into her.

“You want me to finish him?” the man behind her spouts as he grabs her by the hair once again. His hand comes into view as he lowers the gun to Tony’s head, a futile gesture considering the man is very clearly on his last breaths. She flexes her fingers one more time before flattening her left hand out over the hole in her friend’s chest. In a sudden flurry of motion, she whips her right hand out and takes hold of the Lieutenant Colonel’s wrist. “What…” he ekes out as he tries to pull from her grip, dropping the gun as his hand quickly goes numb.

Tiny rivulets of blue electricity seep from her fingertips and weave around his wrist. Up his forearm. He lets out an unholy scream when they rise to his neck and begin to wrap around his head. The soldiers look on in horror as their commanding officer falls to the floor beside Tessa and Tony, all color draining from his skin, his mouth freezing in a wide-open gape as his shriek fades to an eerie rattle before sputtering out entirely.

Tessa closes her eyes, the fire pooling in them creating a glare that’s too bright to bear. But she does not let go of the man to her right. Nor of Tony, who’s chest has now ceased the unsteady rise and fall. _Now_ , she hears, the piercing voice in her head just rising above the nearly deafening hum. _Do it now!_

She pulls back on the tendrils of energy, pulls with all her might. The burning blue rivulets leaving scorch marks splintering across the man’s lifeless flesh as they race back into Tessa’s body. For a brief moment she thinks that her head might explode, so loud is the hum and bright is the burn… and excruciating is the sudden influx of energy.

_Do it_ , comes then in a mere whisper, a soft and painfully familiar voice echoing in her ears.

She pulls in a sharp breath and thrusts every bit of energy – of life force – pulled from the terrible man to her right into the cold body beneath her. She forces it in, guides it through. Pushes and pulls until it all settles into just the right spots. She can feel his heart burst back to life, thumping dramatically, beating wildly against his ribcage. She feels his chest heave and his body lurch, hears him gasp and sputter.

“Yes!” resounds in a triumphant shout from far behind her. “Yes! That’s the power I want!”

She opens her eyes and tries to turn to see where the cry came from, attempts to crane her head, but even that small motion is too much for her exhausted body. All that she sees, her vision blurring at the edges, are Tony’s wild and terrified eyes, meeting hers before roving around the room.

Hands grasp her upper arms and peel her off of him… easily as she has nothing left to fight it. Tony tries to stop them, pawing frantically at the fingers that grip her. She stares at him, her dead – living – friend who, through his fear and confusion, still fights to help her. She watches as the butt of a rifle connects hard with the center of his head, knocking him unconscious. She watches as he falls back, dead to the world… but _alive_. And she lets her own eyes slowly flutter shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh...


	40. In the Dark

The world comes back to him in starts and sputters, soft echoes of his own breaths breaking through the shrill ringing in his ears. There’s a deep, penetrating pain at the center of his head, a burning throb that starts just above his eyes and reaches further back into his skull with every beat of his heart.

His heart.

Tony’s eyes spring open, both hands flying hurriedly to his chest, slipping through thick, sticky layers of still-warm blood as he presses his fingertips all around, searching for marred flesh. But there’s nothing there. He feels only the spindly remnants of scars left behind following the surgery that removed his shrapnel and arc reactor. A shuddering breath pulses through him as he splays his hands wide on his chest and takes a moment to feel his heart beat into his open palms.

Then he sits upright, pulling himself up achingly slowly as the room spins around him. He slides haphazardly across the floor until he’s able to lean heavily against a wall, his head falling back into it for support as his shaking hands begin a frantic search among his suit pockets. They had taken his phone – he vaguely recalls that, the memories thin and wispy things, fluttering discordantly in his periphery. The soldiers had taken his phone, but… _yes_ , he thinks as his fingers close around the pen in his breast pocket.

He clumsily pops the pen open, causing it to glow a bright blue. “Yes, sir?” comes Friday’s voice, clear and soft from the hidden communication device.

There’s no greeting given. No preamble nor explanation. Just two simple words, all he can bear to bleat out. “Send help.”

000

“I…” Natasha stutters again, her face pale and alarmed. “I… I don’t understand.”

Tony stills his hurried pacing, turns a wild stare on her, his eyes still burning bright and wide even hours after the _incident_. “You think _I_ understand?!” he shouts at her, his entire body trembling as he stands in front of her. “I… we…” He stops speaking, his breaths coming in short, rapid bursts.

“Tony,” she starts, her voice thick. She looks to her left, seeking out Steve, seeking his guidance, his direction. But when her eyes find him, she sees that he’s merely staring down at the floor, his posture slumped. She glances back at Tony and sees that he’s a breath away from hyperventilating.

Bucky sees it too. He rushes the man, grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a single swift shake before forcing him down into a chair. He holds him tight, his fingers digging into his upper arms as he kneels before him and looks at him with wide, desperate eyes. But his tone is relaxed and unhindered when he asks, “What did they say?”

Tony swallows thickly and tries to remember not only what had happened those hours ago, but also what he had already told his teammates. They had met in the conference room with Dr. Falstein – who obviously was _not_ actually Emily Falstein. Then they followed her down the hall to another room where there were four armed Canadian soldiers. And an officer… the one who shot him. And Lobe. It was all a ruse. A trap.

They were trapped.

His breathing speeds up again, anxiety lacing his features. Bucky tightens his grip, eliciting a sharp cringe, but also jolting him from his panic. “Stark,” he says, voice still oddly calm. “What did they say?”

He can feel himself shaking, his skin – bones – vibrating in the super soldier’s grasp. “Is this what she felt like?” he asks, looking up and connecting with Bucky’s steely eyes. “When she healed her leg… she said she was… buzzing. Is that what this is?”

Bucky’s lips pinch shut as he pulls a long, deep breath in through his nose. His eyes blink shut for the fraction of a second it takes for him to gather himself. “I don’t know.”

“She healed you,” Steve utters from behind. “She killed that man,” he glances over towards the wall that separates them from the eerily desiccated body in the room next door. “And she healed you.”

Tony had explained this already, of course. It was the first thing he said when the three of them – the only ones milling about the compound that day, seemingly at the ready to take his call – arrived to find him slowly pacing the large, empty halls of the abandoned facility. It was what he’d been saying, in one way or another, over and over again for the past twenty minutes. “Yes,” he nods, his lids falling shut. “I was… I know I…” He opens his eyes and looks back into Bucky’s waiting gaze. “I died, and she… brought me back.”

Steve steps forward and drops his palm to Tony’s shoulder, giving the man a quick, reassuring squeeze before slowly moving his hand down over the top of Bucky’s. He tries to pry his friend’s fingers off of Tony. But his grip is fierce, and it only grows stronger when he issues out through gritted teeth, impatience beginning to burn at each and every one of his nerve endings, “What did they say?”

Tony closes his eyes again, drops his head as he works to quell the trembling – the vibrations seeming to travel through his brain as well as his body. He tries to think, to remember. “He said… Lobe said… she had a cure.” He shakes his head. “An _inhibitor_. He said she found it when working at Muir Island.” He opens his eyes slowly, suddenly recalling words that filtered through his barely conscious brain. He looks first at Bucky, then over to Steve, locking onto the blond man’s eyes as he pulls in a harsh, shaky breath. “He needs it… to develop a serum. That’s what the soldier said. He said that Lobe told him he needed her inhibitor to get them the serum.”

All at once, Bucky’s fingers relax and fall from Tony’s shoulders. He pulls himself upright and takes a step back, continuing to stare down at the man before him. “Did she tell him?” He asks, his voice cracking as the words tumble out one over the next. “Did she give it to them?”

Tony shakes his head. “She said there was no inhibitor. Never was. He was wrong.”

“No,” he mutters, the word carried on a single, stilted breath. “No, he wasn’t wrong.”

Steve turns to his friend, his face creased with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“She’d been working on it,” Natasha states, spinning away from the corner where she’d been standing and stalking back over to the group. “She wouldn’t have been working – ”

Bucky drops his gaze to the floor and shakes his head. “She did. She found it years ago.” He looks up, meeting Tony’s knowing gaze. “She knew it couldn’t get out. She couldn’t…”

“She’s been sabotaging the research,” he says plainly, no emotion to his voice. Bucky nods.

Steve lets out a sort of perplexed grunt as his eyes flick rapidly between the two men. “But…” he tries, unsure where to go. “Wait.” He shakes his head rapidly and pulls in a calming breath as his brain works to make sense of the information. “A serum? The Canadian Army wants Lobe to make them some kind of _serum_?”

“That’s what it sounded like,” Tony replies with a shrug. “I was… pretty woozy. Could’ve misheard.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha sighs out. “That sounds about right. Lobe wanted to give super powers to people.”

“People willing to pay,” Tony interrupts.

“Military contracts pay big,” she says with a small, sad smile.

Bucky runs a tired hand down the length of his face. “So they took her. So she’d give them the cure. So they can get whatever they need out of it and… make super soldiers.” His jaw clenches tightly and a deep, sardonic laugh burns its way up his throat. He nearly chokes on it as he states, tears beginning to swell behind his eyes, “She’ll never do it. She’ll never give them that.”

Natasha watches his expression shift from stoic to crestfallen to damn near crazed in a matter of seconds. “Somewhere in Canada?” she asks, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. “That would make the most sense, right? They’d take her to Canada?”

The men all look at her, each gaze showing varying degrees of confusion… of loss, of fear. Bucky pulls in a short breath and turns away, stalks over to the far wall and places a steadying hand against it as his body begins to tremble.

“Atkinson is still up in Toronto now. And Robson’s been looking into the data pulled from the old Department H files, tracking down sites,” Steve murmurs. “Bring them in on this. Make sure they know what to look for. And…” he spins around to look at Tony. “You can give a description of the woman? Doctor…”

“Falstein,” he finishes. “Yeah, I already did. To Friday. She should be searching for matches now. I just have to get back to New York to go through them all.”

“Okay,” he says with a slow nod, eyes once again falling to the floor as he thinks. _Think, think, think_.

“Can Friday get into area surveillance?” Natasha asks softly, pulling his focus back to the pair before him.

Tony nods. “Yeah. Yes. I… I’ll have her do it. But…” His eyes flit over to Bucky, to the slumped broad shouldered man across the room. “I need to get to back to New York to access everything.”

“What about the media?” Natasha inquires. “Should we release her photo?”

Tony looks up at her, his eyes growing wide. “I could call a press conference. A Stark Industries board member being kidnapped… that’s big news.”

“No,” Steve mutters plainly. “No. If we do that…” He shakes his head plaintively. “The press’ll start digging. If they find out she’s a mutant… No. We can’t risk that. Tess wouldn’t want us to do that.”

“Steve,” Natasha protests gently. “If we can get her picture out there, have more people on the lookout…” She levels him with an almost frantic stare and takes a step forward, lowering her voice as though the others might not hear when she says, “We have no idea where Lobe might take her. We haven’t found a trace of him in over a year. And now he has the Canadian military on his side?”

He shakes his head stiffly, a miserable yet stubborn pout pulling at his bottom lip. “No.”

“Steve, we are in the dark here.”

He turns on her, staunchly puffing out his chest and issuing out in no uncertain terms, “We will find her. There’s no way they did this and didn’t leave any sort of trail.” He throws his hands up dramatically. “There’s a dead man in the other room… an officer! Follow that lead!”

She nods, conceding to his orders. “I’ll call Bruce, have him come out and help. He’s at a conference in Pasadena…” And she slowly backs away from the small group, glancing quickly to Bucky, whose back still faces them all. “And I’ll debrief Atkinson and Robson.” Her eyes flick rapidly back to Steve, an order of her own – _help him_ – buried in her pleading gaze as she steps out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers from his seat. Steve looks down and sees the man’s face is buried in his hands, his head rocking back and forth dejectedly. “I’m sorry.”

Steve says nothing to comfort him. He looks over at his friend’s back, strong and wide and unmoving. But he doesn’t go to him either, doesn’t offer a single reassuring word. Instead, he stands stark still, feet firmly planted even as the ground feels ready to crumble and cave in beneath him.

000

“We got a positive ID on the doctor,” Sam says as he hightails it into the common room. He slaps down an open file, spilling with the very few surveillance photos they managed to get of the blonde German scientist. “Brigitte Brecht,” he breathes out. “Our missing woman from the Brazil group.”

“So she’s not dead,” Steve mutters as he continues his slow pace along the hardwood floor.

“Guess somehow she got lucky. Sounds like whatever they did to her gave her a pretty cool power too. I’d like to be able to walk through walls.” Sam directs the words at Steve but his eyes remain fixed on Bucky’s haunting, hulking form as he looms near the wall of windows at the back of the room, staring blankly out at the river and surrounding landscape.

Steve shakes his head – “Maybe. Doesn’t matter.” – and stills his pace as he looks over at the Falcon. “What about the dead man?”

“Lieutenant Colonel James Grayson. Canadian Army. He spent twenty years in military intelligence. Vision’s still sifting through some data now, but he did find evidence that Grayson’s recently been acting as a liaison between the Army and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.”

“What’s that?” Wanda asks from her perch on the overstuffed chair by the windows. She’s been seated there – with her legs neatly folded up beneath her – since entering and finding Bucky skulking in that same corner.

“They’re kinda like the CIA.” He turns back to Steve. “There’s something else, too. The biotech firm Tess and Stark thought they were meeting with, Schmidt-Muller Technologies? They said that Dr. Falstein – the _real_ Dr. Falstein – disappeared three days ago.”

“We’re assuming she’s dead, then?” the Captain replies, tone utterly devoid of emotion.

Sam nods – “Maybe. Probably.” – and drops his gaze sadly down to the floor. “The company’s legit. The building in San Francisco is in their name. And they knew that Falstein had been talking to Stark. So either Lobe got wind of it and took the opportunity to get in, or she worked with him to set it all up. But if she was working with him, he wouldn’t have needed someone else to play her role, right?” He shrugs. “I have Reynolds heading to Berlin now to see what he can find.”

“Is any of this gonna help us find her?” Bucky asks – the first words anyone has heard him speak since arriving back at the compound almost four hours ago. He turns slowly to face the room, arms still wound tightly over his chest, impassive set to his features. “Did you find anything that could actually lead us to her?”

He pulls in a sharp breath and lets it pass back out over his parted lips in a soft, slow huff as he shakes his head. “They were careful about surveillance in San Francisco. They _planned_ this. Lobe – who we haven’t seen or heard from in over a year – planned this. As of right now, no. There’s no sign of any of them. We don’t know where they went after leaving the office building. We don’t have a clue where they are now.”

Bucky nods – a single, tight nod – as his jaw ticks to the side.

“Somewhere in Canada, though, right?” Wanda hurriedly asks. “That’s… something.”

“We have two support teams on the ground, scouting every location ever mentioned in any of the Department H files,” Steve announces, his voice all business. “Rhodey’s leading them, so we know we’ll get good coverage and a thorough overview.”

“Atkinson’ll be back tonight to debrief on what she got up in Toronto,” Sam mentions. “Doesn’t sound like it’s much right now, but it could lead to something.”

Wanda shifts her gaze back and forth between the men before settling on Bucky and his distant stare. “She’s strong,” she utters decisively.

“And damn stubborn,” Sam adds.

Bucky bites at the corner of his lip before stating, tone still oddly detached. “Too stubborn to tell them what they want to hear.” He looks up at the others in the room, eyes ticking between all of the forlorn gazes. _Sad_ isn’t what they should be right now. _Sad_ isn’t going to help them get his girl back. His shoulders stiffen. “How long before they start the torture?”

Steve sputters, eyes blowing wide as he says, “We don’t know – ”

“How long before they give up on getting _information_ out of her and just go for her gifts?” he goes on, dark stare now burning into the Captain. “How long before they start tearing her apart for her powers?”

No one says a word. None of them can answer those terrible queries, those same questions that each of them have been asking themselves going on a full day now. They simply don’t have _any_ answers.

Sam glances down at his phone – the room so quiet that the sound of it vibrating in his hand manages to reverberate throughout the sprawling common area. “Nat and Atkinson are back,” he announces in a small voice.

Steve gives a firm nod. “Get them set up in the conference room. We’ll be down in ten. And…” He glances cautiously around the room. “As far as everyone else knows, she was taken _only_ for her scientific expertise. I don’t want anyone outside of _us_ to know about her being a mutant.”

Sam exits in silence. Wanda slowly unfurls her long legs from beneath her and follows him out. The moment they’re gone, Steve glances over at his sullen friend. “I know this is… a lot,” he starts, earning him nothing more than a menacing stare. “I need to know that you can…” He drops his gaze and shakes his head.

“Keep it together?” Bucky offers, chin jutting almost defiantly.

“It’s understandable if you can’t.” He looks back up at him, levels him with a strident stare. “I promise you, we will find her. We _will_ get her back.”

He lets loose a long, pained sigh, the shudder that permeates it being the first hint of emotion breaking through the tough exterior in some time. “You’re not doing it without me,” he tells Steve, his voice agonizingly sincere. “I _can_ ,” he finishes with a conclusive nod. “I can keep it together. If it means getting her back.”

000

Sarah Atkinson was never particularly good at lying. Sure, she could play a part when needed, take on a new and different persona for undercover operations – few and far between though they were in ATF. But lying, keeping secrets, being evasive… these things have always gone against her open-book nature.

So imagine her surprise when the words – _It turned out to be a dead end. Markum hasn’t heard from Scofield in years_ – slip easily off her tongue.

She half expects Captain Rogers to call bullshit… thinks that Romanov for sure will. But no one in the room questions her integrity. The only inquiries she receives are requests for additional information, desperate digging to find answers – _any_ answers – wherever they might be hiding.

A tight knot forms in her gut as she peers around the room, taking in the sad, exhausted faces of her teammates. There’s a thick sort of melancholy that permeates the air, makes it hard for them all to breathe. But the questions and suppositions, theories and proposed plans, all tumble hurriedly from nearly every person in the room, despite the obvious weary tone of the evening.

Her eyes land on Bucky’s silent, stoic form looming in the corner, and she pushes away from the table, ducking out of what seems to now be little more than a shouting match between Steve, Natasha, and Tony. Bucky’s busy watching them, an air of disinterest playing on his cold features as he leans heavily against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

Atkinson leans casually into the wall as well and slides over to him. She studies him closely for a long moment, taking in the tightness of the muscles surrounding his firmly set jaw, the almost eerie absence of light in his stormy gray eyes. She lays a gentle hand on his forearm, feels the muscles tense beneath his sleeve, and asks in a soft voice, “Are you alright?”

He glances down at her only briefly before returning his stare to the commotion going on at the conference table. His expression doesn’t change. His stance remains just as tight, just as still. “No.”

She nods slowly and drops her hand from his arm. “Well,” she breathes out, the knot in her stomach growing, pulsating in time with the beat of her heart. “I’m sorry,” she says, the first truth to come out of her in days.

He offers a single, firm nod by why of _thanks_ and pulls away from her, stepping out of the corner and over towards the rest of the team. Steve and Tony continue to stare each other down from separate sides of the table. Natasha now sits slumped in one of the oversized chairs, chewing anxiously at the inside of her cheek as Bruce silently tries to sooth her with a touch. Bucky watches with newfound interest – the bitter words being thrown around between Tony and Steve fading into distant background noise as he notes the way Bruce’s fingers dart up to stroke the back of Romanov’s hand before offering one long, tight squeeze around her wrist… and then dropping away completely.

He feels his own fingers twitch at his side, aching to tenderly caress Tessa’s hand, to take hold of her wrist. To just _touch_ her.

“Enough,” Steve announces quickly, causing Bucky to start. He rises from his seat, steps away from the table and begins slowly pacing. “Let’s just…” A tired sigh huffs out of him and he pensively pinches his chin between his thumb and forefinger, shrewdly perusing the room as he thinks. He stops and narrows his eyes at Natasha first. “Put a team together,” he orders. “I want you to keep working on finding Xavier and the other X-Men, see if they can help.”

She offers a firm nod. “I called Clint too. He’s on his way in.”

“Good,” he breathes out. “Thanks.”

Vision steps up from behind her, a single finger raised to indicate the birth of an idea. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to Muir Island,” he suggests. “Dr. MacTaggert was mentioned as being one of the scientists who was able to discern a way to stop MGH from functioning.” He turns to face Tony. “Isn’t that correct?”

He nods slowly, sinking deeper into his chair.

“She may be able to help in some way. Or, if not… well, perhaps a warning is in order at the least.” He raises a single perceptive brow and cocks his head deliberately. “They may be after her as well.”

“Yeah,” Steve mutters. “Yeah, maybe. Good thinking.”

Tony lets out a long, loud sigh as he throws back his head. “Except, we can’t get in there.” Steve turns to quirk a questioning brow at him. “Muir Island,” he states. “It’s like a… trendy Manhattan night club.” The Captain’s forehead crinkles, further confusion washing over his face. “They don’t just let anybody in.”

“Well,” he starts, eyes widening. “We’re not just anybody.”

“She was Tessa’s mentor, right?” Bruce asks, eyes blowing wide as he rises excitedly. “She’d probably want to help.”

Wanda clears her throat delicately from across the table. “I don’t know that she would, actually,” she states slowly, pulling herself upright in her seat. “They had a bit of a falling out. Years ago.”

“Bad enough that it would keep her from helping us find Tessa?” Steve asks with furrowed brow.

She gives a hesitant nod. “I think so. Yes.”

He lets out a short, irritated breath before turning back to Tony. “You really don’t think you could get us in?”

“Yeah, man,” Sam says from the Captain’s left. “Doesn’t the whole scientific community have a hard on for Stark Industries?”

Tony lets out an amused snort. “Yeah, I’m sure that the Mutant Research Center – a place dedicated to _helping_ mutants – would love to invite over the company that’s trying to eradicate them.”

“At least you admit it,” Bucky mutters with a huff.

“What if you weren’t,” Bruce muses, the far-off look in his eye signaling the team that the wheels are turning. An idea clicks in place, a sudden confidence taking over as he splays his hands on the tabletop and leans over to look assessingly at Tony. “What if you shut the project down? And announced it to the world?”

He looks up and locks onto his eyes, stares steadily into them for a long moment, studying his level of sincerity. “Shut it down?”

He raises his eyebrows at him as he goes on, voice low and conspiratorial. “Take a stand for mutant rights.”

“That’s a dangerous game right now,” Sam states, sputtering a bit when several heated glares are turned his way. “I’m just saying. It’s an unpopular opinion.” He looks to Tony. “And you did agree to the Accords earlier this year. Sudden 180 like that might raise suspicion.”

Natasha shrugs. “It might. But… I agreed to the Accords too. Doesn’t mean I think that a registry for civilians is right.”

Bruce drops his hand to her shoulder, clamping on as he eagerly adds, “And don’t the Avengers stand up for what they think is right? Isn’t it our job fight against what’s wrong?”

Tony’s gaze drops down to the floor – to his sneakers as they shuffle and scuff along the hardwood. “Is it wrong?” he asks, voice so small that he almost sounds like he’s talking just to himself. He shrugs. “I don’t think I know anymore. What’s right… What’s wrong…”  

“You almost got killed for that cure,” Bruce says, his tone low and strangely gentle.

“Not almost,” Natasha corrects.

“It would make it much easier to explain Dr. Sullivan’s absence,” Vision interjects. “I doubt her staff would believe that she took a sabbatical or began a new project when they’re all so deep into this particular initiative.”

Bucky looks over at the android, his fists slowly clenching at his sides as he utters, “Her absence?” A dark scowl pulls across his face. “How long do you expect her to be gone?”

If Vis senses the threat in his words – in his countenance – he doesn’t show it. Instead he cocks his head to the side as if in thought, and responds carefully with, “There’s no way of knowing, really. Like everyone here, I certainly _hope_ that Dr. Sullivan returns soon. But I fear that it may take some time yet for us to find her.”

Bucky pulls himself up to his full height and folds his arms tightly over his chest again as he stares down the red-tinted _man_. “Barnes,” he growls out. “It’s Dr. _Barnes_.” He turns then to face Tony, unfurling his right hand so that he might aim a single pointed finger in his direction. “And you _should_ shut the program down. Now. Hell, you never should’ve started it to begin with.”

Tony looks away, the man’s icy stare too much for him to take right now. “I know,” he admits softly.

Bucky leans down over him, his metal fingers wrapping around the edge of the mahogany conference table and leaving deep ruts as they bite into the wood. “You owe her,” he issues out in one long breath, each word laced with venom.

He looks up then, countenance stony, words vehement as he slowly ekes out, “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then shut down the program,” Bruce repeats, his tone calm, conciliatory. “Tell the world. Become a hero in the mutant community. And get us into Muir Island.”

He glares fully at him as Bucky rights himself and steps off to the side. “You honestly think it’s just that simple?” he asks with a small snort of a laugh. “First of all, it’s not up to me. There’s a _board_.”

“We all know you have controlling interest in the company, Tony,” Bruce points out with an astutely raised brow. “Everyone knows that.”

“The money… the time… the personnel,” he mutters, dropping his head to his hands and scraping his fingernails harshly into his scalp. “So much has been invested.”

“Shut it down,” Bucky says plainly, his voice oddly quiet, almost distant. Tony glances up at him, watches as he shakes his head slowly, sadly. “Just… shut it all down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... things have clearly taken a turn. I'm not gonna lie, the next few chapters might get a little tough, so I hope you're all okay with some good old fashioned angst. I'd love to hear what you think about the direction we're headed. And as always, thanks for reading!


	41. Panic Rising

It’s like New York all over again. Or… _post_ New York, just after the battle. Right around the time the chaos ended and the cleanup began. Right around the time Tony finally managed to take a deep breath and register that he was actually – surprisingly – alive.

But _alive_ was a tricky thing to be.

How long after that battle did he float in a sort of aimless haze… neither dead nor quite living? How long did he – day after day after day – have to work to convince himself that this _life_ wasn’t all just some sort of hallucination spawning from his oxygen-deprived brain as he flew through the Earth’s atmosphere, hurtling out towards certain death? How long – once he finally accepted that he was, in fact, alive – did he step softly through every waking moment in an attempt to avoid that feeling… the feeling of dying?

Panic attacks, they called them. Post-traumatic stress, that’s how they labeled it. But for Tony, the feeling was always the same – _dying_. How long had it taken for him to be able to convince himself that every attack – every painful, paralyzing, pulse-raising moment that came upon him seemingly out of the blue – was just a physiological reaction to a psychological stressor? How long had it taken him to learn how to talk himself down, to convince his mind that he wasn’t actually dying after all?

Too long. It took too damn long for him to figure out a way to live with _being_ _alive_.

And now he’s gone and died – and come back – all over again.

“Tony?” His entire body jolts as his eyes fly up from the computer screen, catching Pepper’s concerned scowl as she looms in the dark before him.

He shifts on the sofa and lets out a small relieved breath along with a barely audible, “Yeah?”

She raises a reproachful brow, her eyes still filled with nothing but sympathetic worry despite the warning expression. “Tony, it’s late,” she tells him simply, a commanding note to her voice. “Come back to bed.”

He gazes at her for a long moment, lost in a longing sort of haze as he watches her blink away sleep and let out a long yawn. He wants nothing more than to follow her back to their room and crawl into bed beside her. Nothing more than to have her wrap her long arms around him and hold him close, lull him into a restful sleep. But… “Can’t,” he mutters, turning his attention back to the screen in front of him. “Too much to do.”

“Tony,” she repeats, his name rolling off her tongue equal parts stern and soft. “You _have_ to get some sleep.” She pads over on bare feet and delicately drops down onto the leather sofa beside him. “I know it’s hard right now, but – ”

“Hard?” he interrupts with a scoff. “It’s not hard. I just have a lot to do.”

“ _But_ ,” she begins again. “You haven’t slept in days.” She reaches up and grips the top of the laptop, slowly pivoting the screen down until the computer snaps shut. “We can’t go back to where we were a few years ago. _You_ can’t go back there. You need to sleep.”

He lets out an irritated huff, followed quickly by a pathetic, exhausted-sounding groan. “Don’t get lost,” he murmurs to himself, almost rolling his eyes as the mantra spills off his tongue.

“Don’t get lost,” Pepper repeats gently before laying her head on his shoulder.

He lets out a long sigh and shakes his head adamantly, huffing out, “I have to keep up with her workload.” His fingers dance anxiously over the closed laptop as his restless mind runs circles around his exhausted body, spurning on the edginess that’s been prickling along his skin for nearly a week now. “She has so damn many projects going. And I don’t even really know what she had going on with Peter, but he’s…” He shifts away suddenly, leans forward to place the computer on the coffee table in front of him, and rises from the couch to begin a jittery pace. “What do I tell him?” he asks, a hint of desperation to his voice. “What do I tell any of them?”

Pepper watches his nervous movements with a quiet sort of curiosity, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees as she pulls in a slow, calming breath. “I had HR send out a memo yesterday stating that she’s out on extended leave for an indeterminate period of time.” Tony spins around and gives her a look of utter shock, his mouth hanging agape. Her expression is serious and business-like when she states, “I told everyone in Seattle to report to Vargas and everyone here in New York to report to Riordan.”

His eyes widen even further, open mouth ticking as he works to find his words. “I don’t even… who the hell is Riordan?”

“Tessa hired him last month,” she states plainly. “He’s been managing most of the day to day at the labs here so…”

Tony shakes his head wildly. “No. No, not _Riordan_. And not Vargas either. No. I want everyone to report directly to me.”

“Tony,” she intones, an incredulous expression rolling over her tired features.

“I can’t…” he tries. “I won’t…” He attempts again to weed through the myriad thoughts cycling in his brain, tries desperately to find a way to articulate what he _needs_ to say. But all that comes out is a pathetic-sounding, “ _Indeterminate period_?”

Pepper slowly rises from the couch and steps over to him. “I absolutely believe that you’ll find her and bring her home. But in the meantime, it’s up to me to make sure that Stark Industries continues to run smoothly in her absence. Vargas and Riordan are the best options for keeping that division running smoothly. Not you. I’m saying this because it’s what’s best for the company. And it’s what’s best for _you_.”

He glares at her and takes a single, large step back when she reaches out for him. “What’s best for _her_?” he asks vehemently.

A sad, almost hurt look crosses her face. “What… what do you mean?”

He pulls himself staunchly upright and places his hands on his hips, boldly jutting out his chin. “I’m shutting down the inhibitor project,” he declares stiffly, without preamble.

Her eyes widen and burn for the briefest of moments, a wave of shock rolling quickly through her before being replaced by a sad sort of realization. She sighs and looks down at the intricately crafted rug adorning their floor. Her head shakes slowly back and forth as she softly asserts, “Tony, you can’t do that.”

He scoffs loudly, his voice rising both in volume and apprehension as he says, “Of course I can. It’s Stark Industries. And I’m Tony Stark.”

She looks up and locks onto his almost crazed stare. “I know. But – ”

“They took her for that research, Pep.” His exhausted, red-rimmed eyes burn into her. His hands, hanging loosely by his sides, quake and tremble in a way she hasn’t seen in years. “They _killed me_.” She flinches at his words, but it doesn’t stop him from going on to say, “They’ll kill her too.”

“You don’t know that,” she tries, her voice – for the first time – showing signs of doubt, trembling as it drops to a forced – utterly false – self-assured bravado.

He stares at her for a long moment, nearly losing himself in the bright blue of her eyes as the low lamplight permeates her irises, exposing the fear and dread and helplessness hiding behind them. She’s not the enemy. He knows this.

A deep, shuddering sigh escapes him and he runs a tired hand down his face. “Bruce thinks… if we shut it down… maybe then Dr. MacTaggert will meet with us. Maybe she can help. Or maybe she knows where the X-Men are… Romanov hasn’t been able to find anything on them.” He shakes his head impassively. “I don’t know. I don’t think…” He locks onto her eyes, a painfully sincere expression pulling at his features, aging his face by ten years or more.

Pepper ducks her head and lets out a stilted sigh. “The board would need to vote.”

He shakes his head again, this time unyielding. “I have controlling interest. I can shut down any project I want.”

“And what will you tell them?” she asks, raising a sad, imploring gaze. “What will you tell the world?”

His lips pinch tightly together and he raises a single pointed finger – less at her than at those out there in _the world_ – and he hisses out, “I’ll tell them they were wrong.” His face breaks just the slightest bit, the stern arrogance melting away as a deep despair returns to his features. “I’ll tell them _we_ were wrong.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“I’ll make it that simple,” he declares, his tone beginning to falter. “I won’t… we won’t put any more money towards… I shouldn’t have… I _never_ …”

“Tony,” she tries, moving swiftly to his side as his breaths spill out it short, tight huffs.

He pulls back and begins to hurriedly pace once more. “If we hadn’t approved that damn project… if we just would’ve gone with… I don’t know… Ebola!” He pauses, his posture stilling, breath calming, eyes widening as a sudden thought occurs to him. He snaps his fingers and quickly retreats to the coffee table where his cell phone sits. “Ebola,” he mutters to himself as he picks up the cell and begins scrolling through it.

“Tony?” Pepper’s eyebrows draw tightly together as she watches him, immediately recognizing the consumed expression on his face, the fixated quality of his gaze. All at once the single-minded genius her fiancé all too often becomes appears before her, tightly cocooned inside his own private virtuoso. “What are you doing?”

He barely even glances up at her as he says, “The Wakandans. They wanted to team up to find a vaccine for Ebola. It’s perfect.” He shrugs as he continues to study his phone. “We’ll be the first to work with them. I can call a press conference to announce that this initiative will take precedence now that we’re shutting down the inhibitor program.”

“Tony, I still think – ”  

“We’ll have access to their tech,” he talks over her, barely even registering her voice. “Our investors will love that.” Then, all at once, his mind drifts, eyes rising and staring off at nothing as something new clicks inside his brain. “ _Nanotechnology_.”

“What?” she asks, shaking her head, utterly perplexed.

“Nano…” He drops his hands – including the one with the phone tightly clamped inside of it – to his sides as he levels her with a serious stare. “I only had a cuff with me. It wasn’t enough. But if… With the right kind of tech, I could put together a suit made of nanoparticles. I could take it with me anywhere, hide it… hide it my pocket! Or under my clothes. I’d be ready. For next time.”

She lets out a long, pained sigh. “Can’t we just hope there won’t be a next time?”

“No,” he shakes his head, focusing his attention once more on his cell phone. He has no idea what time it is in Wakanda, but he also doesn’t really care. He finally finds the number he’s looking for and hits _call_ , locks onto his fiancée’s eyes and tells her, without a hint of doubt, “There’s always going to be a _next time_.”

000

_“I can’t believe it snowed at all,” Tessa exclaims, rushing into the apartment and hurriedly kicking off her boots, shucking her coat. “It’s too damn cold!”_

_“Even for snow?” Bucky chuckles as he follows her inside and drops his own shoes by the door before hanging his – and her – coat up in the closet._

_She races back into the bedroom and awkwardly tugs the comforter from the bed, drapes it over her shoulders and pulls it tight around her shivering frame before moving back into the living room. “I’m not going back outside ‘til spring,” she mumbles into the thick blanket, hopping and tripping over it as she makes her way to the sofa._

_“Fair enough,” he breathes out before settling in beside her. She leans into him, dropping her head to his shoulder, but continues to grip the comforter tightly up around her chin. “You’re not gonna share?” he intones slyly, tugging at the blanket._

_A small shudder rips through her. “No. Too cold.”_

_He slips his right hand beneath the blanket, wrapping his arm loosely around her back. “They didn’t teach you about body heat in medical school?”_

_She shakes her head and ducks her face further into the cover, using it to conceal her growing smile. “Mine,” she snaps, the sound muffled._

_He slowly works his cold fingertips beneath the hem of her shirt, biting back a laugh when she roughly jerks and starts. A sharp_ eep _escapes her lips and she tries to roll away from him, but he grips her tight and pulls her closer, wrapping his metal arm around both her and the bulky comforter. “Not nice,” he murmurs into her hair, her neck, as he easily hauls her into his lap and snuggles into her –_ relative _– warmth. “I hate the cold.”_

_She finally unfolds her arms and brings the blanket around him, hugging him close as he continues to nuzzle. “But I’m cold,” she mutters with a put-on frown. “Do you hate me?”_

_“Never,” he says, refusing to remove his face – his freezing nose – from the warmth he’s found at the crook of her neck._

_“Never?” she asks, teasing lilt to her voice. Her own icy hands make their way to the bare skin of his back. But unlike her, he doesn’t so much as twitch from the cold intrusion. She pulls back just the slightest bit, just enough for his head to lose purchase on her shoulder. He looks up at her, a sleepy quality to his bright blue irises. “Say it again,” she says, a soft demand uttered through barely parted lips._

_He quirks a crooked smile at her. “Say what? I hate the cold?”_

_She bites at the corner of her bottom lip and shakes her head. “No. The thing you said earlier… say it again.”_

_He leans into her, dropping his head to her chest and working his chin down into the V of her sweater so his lips can lay soft kisses along her sternum. Slowly, his fingers move from their spot splayed out on her back and begin to barely hook into the waistband of her thick leggings, tugging just a bit at the hip. He pulls delicately along to the front, the subtle brush of his calloused fingertips on the sensitive flesh of her abdomen setting off chills in her of a very different kind. Even just the thought of_ cold _begins to melt away as he sets her skin to burn. Her lids fall shut._

_Bucky traces a line with his lips… up the center of her chest, over to her collarbone, zagging to her neck. He feels her throat bob as she swallows thickly, makes out the slightest vibration as a barely audible hum  of contentment spills out of her._

_“Say it again,” she breathes out, words tumbling one over the next as they fall from her lips amid a tight near gasp._

_He works his fingers in deeper, moving under her pants, digging beneath her soft cotton panties until he reaches the warmest part of her. “You’ll have to remind me, sweetheart,” he murmurs to her as he slowly curls one – then two – fingers inside of her._

_Her breath catches, head lulls back. “Say it,” she tries again, the words coming out as a desperate whisper._

_He smiles into her, his grinning face pressed to her neck and shoulder as he nips at her flesh. “Remind me.”_

_He knows exactly what she’s after. Of course, he knows._ I love you. _He’d said it no more than an hour ago. In this very apartment. In these very arms. For the first time. Ever._

_Oh, he’d told plenty of woman that he adored them, cherished them, worshipped the very ground they walked on. He’d said all sorts of things – many more things, he’s sure, than his rather vague memories of being Bucky Barnes would allow him to recall – to countless women._

You’re the best, baby doll. You’ve got my heart. I’m under your spell. Sweetheart, you’re the only one for me.

_But he had never actually said_ those _words –_ I love you _. Not until tonight. Not until Tessa._

_Her hands drift down to find his, fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist, stilling his touch. He pulls his head back and looks up to meet her lust-blown gaze. “You forgot that you love me?” she asks in a voice so soft and sweet and achingly sincere that he feels his breath catch in his chest._

_“Baby,” he says, dropping his forehead to hers and bumping into her still-cold nose. “That might be the only thing that no one could ever make me forget. Ever.”_

_A wide, almost wicked smile curls around her face as she leans in and kisses him. Hard. “Then say it,” she demands again, breath hot on his stubbled chin._

_Their teeth clack together, lips wildly tangling, as he mutters through the melee, “I love you.”_

_She releases her grip on his wrist, moving her hands to frantically dig into his jeans as his fingers begin to once again twist and curl inside of her. “I love you,” she huffs out into his open mouth before kissing him again. “I love you,” as she nips at his lip and coils her fingers around him._

_“I love you,” he repeats once more to her, ragged breaths snagging on the words._

_She pulls in a sharp breath, her head falling to his shoulder. “James,” she squeaks out, a stilted, high-pitched gasp of pleasure. He feels her clench tighter around his fingers, feels her deliberate stroking of him cease for the briefest of moments. “James,” this time deeper, almost a growl. Her head falls back and he gazes longingly at her… the flawless milky white skin of her neck, the slight redness to the tip of her still-chilled nose, the small indentations along her bottom lip from biting into it a bit too hard. Then, “Jamie,” spills out, a whisper… no,_ whimper _. A breath and a promise and a prayer, all in one._

_He closes his eyes and silently begs her to say it again, to let the word –_ his name _– fall languidly from her sweet and swollen lips amid the palpable torrent of lust… of love._

_And she does._

_“Jamie!”_

_But this time it’s a shout. This time it doesn’t come out in pleasure or ecstasy or want._

_“Jamie!”_

_This time, her voice reverberates through him, filled with pain and fear and terror. It calls out to him, beckoning him… begging him to help her… to come and find her… to save her._

_“Jamie!”_

His eyes fly open and he bolts upright, startling awake.

The room slowly comes into focus around him. He’s on the same sofa they’d made love on that night – Christmas Eve three years ago. It’s the one that followed them from the apartment in the Tower. The one that began as _hers_ and – following so many days and nights of lazy lounging, of shared laughter, of heartfelt revelations and needy groping – became _theirs_.

The coffee table in front of him is the same as well. As is the lamp spilling light out over him from the corner. These are their things. This place – the apartment at the compound – this is their home. _Their_ home. His eyes ping around the room, and everywhere they land he sees _them_ … he sees _her_.

He blearily blinks a few more times, filtering out the last traces of sleep. _Sleep_. He’d fallen asleep. How the hell did he manage that? He jolts in place and looks frantically around him for his cell, finds it fallen on the floor in front of him. She could’ve called. Anyone could have. There might be news. But when he looks down at the screen, he sees nothing more than the time – and date – a bitter reminder of just how long she’s been gone.

He tosses the phone onto the table and drops his head into his hands.

_You forgot that you love me?_

Air rips from his lungs in short, clipped pulses and he has to clamp his eyes shut and slowly count down his breaths to try and regain control. In – _one, two, three_. Out – _one, two, three_.

_I love you._

His fingers curl tightly into his hair, digging and gripping and pulling until small clumps release from his scalp.

_I love you._

The counting ceases as he pulls in a long, ragged breath. And he’s not at all surprised when it comes back out as a deep, pitiful growl. A sob.

_Jamie_.

In one lightening-fast movement, his hands drop from his head, falling to grip the front edge of the coffee table, metal fingers crushing into the wood before chucking the piece of furniture across the room. It crashes loudly into the fireplace, splintering into chunks and shards.

_Their_ coffee table. _Their_ fireplace.

Eddie lets loose a wild screech and bolts from the room in horror, a leg from the table narrowly missing the spot where he’d been peacefully lounging in the corner.

Bucky rises quickly from the couch and begins to pace, walking in confused circles around the living room as his breaths grow shallow, eyes frantic. He’s trapped. He hasn’t felt this trapped in a long, long time. He’s trapped, and there’s nowhere to go.

_I love you._

He stumbles into the kitchen, over to the far corner by the fridge – _their_ fridge, the one they argued about for over a week until he finally gave in and let her pick the one she wanted – and he slowly crumples to the ground, pulling his knees tightly into his chest.

He forces his eyes shut again, pulls back on all of the training he’d done with his therapist, all of the strategies he’d learned to deal with panic… with fear and regret and remorse. With that god-awful sense of utter helplessness. Again, he counts – _one, two, three, one, two, three_. And eventually his breathing begins to settle, even if only a bit.

There’s a small, hesitant mewl from his left and Bucky opens his eyes just enough to peer down and watch as the gray tabby swipes his little dark head along his thigh before arching his back and sweeping down his leg, nuzzling him.

“Sorry, buddy,” he tells him, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. He reaches out and slowly traces the pad of his metal index finger down the length of Eddie’s back. “I’m sorry.”

The cat merely meows once in return before spinning around and sauntering back off into the other room.

Bucky once again drops his head into his hands, buries his face in his palms. “I’m sorry,” he repeats to himself. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out – to no one. “Sorry. So sorry,” he goes on, voice catching. “So damn sorry,” over and over and over again as he sobs, curled up – alone – on their kitchen floor.


	42. Cursed

It’s another week before someone from the Mutant Research Center _finally_ returns his calls. But the moment Tony gets a real living person on the phone – even if that person is just a lowly scheduling assistant intent on informing him that Dr. MacTaggert does not take calls nor requests for visits – he’s like a dog with a freaking bone. Two hours. That’s how long he has to bullshit, charm, manipulate, and wheel and deal his way up the ladder until someone of substance finally takes over the call.

It’s not Dr. MacTaggert, no. As stated multiple times throughout his pestering requests, she does not take phone calls. “She doesn’t leave the island either, apparently,” Tony issues out with a vapid scoff as he relays everything to the team. “But she’s allowing _just a few_ of us into the center on Muir Island.”

Bruce cocks his head confusedly. “Why doesn’t she leave the island?”

“I don’t know,” he grumbles, turning on him. “She’s a quirky shut in. A zany scientist. An agoraphobe.”

“Or maybe she knows that Lobe’s looking for her,” Bucky mutters with a raised brow. He clears his throat, steadying his voice – while also working to steady his now constantly shaking hands – and asks, “Who’s going?”

“Well,” Tony says, dropping heavily into a chair. “Me, obviously. According to… I don’t know, _someone_ I talked to, she’s very interested in Wanda and…” He spins in his seat to level a pointed finger at Bruce. “You.”

“Me?” he replies, brows raising in surprise. His face crinkles and falls. “Wait a minute. Is she interested because of my work record, or because I… turn green?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. But my guess would be the latter.”

Bucky folds his arms tightly across his chest and juts out his chin. “I’m going,” he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

“Yep,” Tony spits out, easily capitulating. He places his palms on the table and swiftly shoves up out of the chair. “Sure. Fine. Wonderful. It’ll be me, the Not-So-Wicked Witch, Big Green, and Tin Man. The Dream Team.” He glances over at Vision. “I got the Cliff’s Notes version of everything we’ve done up until now on the inhibitor project from Vargas. But you need to fill me in on everything you know about what Lobe’s team has done… or what we _think_ they’ve done.”

He nods graciously. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” he finishes with a loud clap of his hands. “I’m gonna powernap for twenty and then we can get started. The rest of you, we leave for Scotland first thing in the morning. And remember, it’s considered rude to wear shorts under your kilt.”

000

“Mr. Stark,” the older woman intones, sweeping confidently into the room. He expects a handshake, but receives no such offer as Dr. Moira MacTaggert merely whips around to the other side of the giant desk and plops unceremoniously into her seat, her long dark, gray-streaked locks bouncing around her shoulders as she does so.

“Uh,” he mutters, tucking away his extended hand and exchanging perplexed glances with the others as they debate whether they should sit or stand before her. “Yeah. Yes. Dr. MacTaggert. Nice to meet you.”

She smiles coyly at him, her light eyes gleaming from behind thick-rimmed glasses. “Oh, we’ve met before.” He cocks his head and gives her a confused glare. “You were a wee lad then,” she says with a wink. “Your da brought me over to help with some such… thing. And you were busy tearing ‘round his office in a nappy!”

Bruce nearly chokes on a laugh as he takes a seat, the others slowly following his lead, leaving only a rather startled-looking Tony still looming. “I… uh… I don’t remember that,” he mumbles.

“No, I don’t expect you would. Anyhow,” she leans back casually in the overstuffed office chair, her expression quickly transitioning from mirthful to insistent. “What can I do for you, Mr. Stark?” Her eyes sweep suspiciously around the room, single brow raised. “For all of you?”

“We need help finding someone,” Bucky blurts out, even as Tony’s lips part to reply. He shifts to the very edge of his seat and levels the woman with a serious stare. “Tessa Sullivan.”

She remains silent for a long moment, simply gazing serenely into his dull blue eyes. Then she pulls in a low, deep breath, the tiniest forced smile emerging on her face. “Anna.”

He nods. “Yes.”

She turns to Tony, who’s finally lowered himself into the chair beside Bruce. “The last time I spoke with her, she was taking a job at your company. She was terribly excited.” A small snort of derision falls from her lips. “’Course, I had to call her _Tessa_ then. All these names!” she exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. “Can’t ever keep straight who’s who. Sullivan, though…” She turns back to Bucky, raises a single, thin-fingered hand into the air and snaps loudly. “I gave her that one. Told her she couldn’t be – ” She stops herself short, amused grin quickly dropping as she clears her throat. “Well, anyway… you said you need to _find her_? Where’s she gotten off to, then?”

Bucky flinches, a barely perceptible shudder and grimace rolling over him. His mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out, any and all accounts dying and rotting on his tongue. It’s Wanda who comes to the rescue, dropping a soothing hand atop his to let him know she’s got this just before issuing out, “She was taken. Kidnapped. By someone wanting information on the research that _you_ did years ago.”

The doctor narrows her eyes at the young woman and cocks her head assessingly. “Research?”

“On the X-gene,” Bruce interjects, leaning forward in his seat.

Her head pivots toward him, her expression changing on a dime as though she’s only just noticed he’s in the room. “Dr. Banner!” she enthuses, clapping her hands together excitedly. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance!”

He pulls back the slightest bit, both confused and intrigued by her display. “Yes. I am as well. But – ”

“Right. Right. Anna. Yes.” She clears her throat, her expression again turning grave. “Taken, you say? And for X-gene research?” She leans back and emits a low whistle. “Well, can’t say I’m surprised by that. Very _desired_ stuff that is.”

The small group of Avengers exchange confused – and concerned – looks before Bruce responds to her by drawing out, “Okay. Well… these people who took her…”

Bucky shakes his head and lets out an impatient growl. “She’s been missing for two weeks. We have no leads. No clue where they took her.”

“Canada,” Wanda interjects quickly before settling back and letting the Sergeant continue.

He nods distractedly. “Probably Canada. But other than that…”

“Weapon X?” the doctor inquires, her tone and posture both an odd mix of eager and fearful.

“Maybe related,” Tony states as he shifts in his seat. “The Weapon X program was originally run by a man named John Sublime.”

“Oh ho,” she intones with a bitter laugh. “Not a _man_. No.”

His brow furrows dramatically, chin tucking into his neck as he gives her a questioning stare. “He was a mutant?”

“No,” she states simply, head emphatically bobbing back and forth. “But he was not a _man_.”

Tony continues to watch her, waiting for the oddly eccentric woman to go on and explain just what the hell she’s talking about. But she says nothing more, simply reclining in her chair and cocking her head at him expectantly. He finally blows out an irritated breath and decides to go on as though she’d never interrupted. “Well, anyway… Sublime’s gone. But – ”

“Is he?” she asks with a curious lilt.

His head twists a bit and he narrows his eyes, giving her a sidelong glare. “Isn’t he?”

She shrugs. “I don’t keep up much with the goings-on _out there_ ,” she says, sweeping her hand aimlessly across the room.

The eyeroll that Tony gives is so deep that it almost throws him off balance. “ _Anyway_ … some _guy_ who’s calling himself Lobe got ahold of Sublime’s writings and decided that it’d be a good idea to create the Third Species.”

“The Third Species,” she breathes out slowly, fascination and intrigue positively dripping from her lips.

Wanda feels Bucky stiffen beside her, senses the annoyance building around him like the headiness of rain hanging in the air just before a storm. She pats his hand firmly and then leans forward. “Lobe wants to create super-powered people. He’s already experimented on several. Enhanced them. And he’s used them to… start wars.”

“Well, yes, of course. What else would he use them for?” Dr. MacTaggert counters, spinning in her chair to stare at the young woman.

Wanda’s mouth gapes open as she struggles to comprehend.

“What is it that _you_ were used for, Miss Maximoff?”

“I…” She struggles only for a brief moment, quickly swallowing down her reticence and asking, “I thought you didn’t _keep up_ with what was happening out there?”

“Some things get back to me, no matter how much I try to hide,” she admits with a sad smile. “Example… the world’s gone mad yet again and now wants to _register_ mutants.”

“Dr. MacTaggert,” Tony breathes out, his own patience rapidly waning. “I’m less concerned with the world registering mutants right now and far more concerned with the Canadian government – along with Lobe – experimenting on them.”

“Experimenting _how_?” she asks, resting her chin in her hands and staring at him with keen interest. Her lips quirk into a small, suspicious sort of smile as she inclines further forward.

He pulls in a deep breath and prepares to recite what he learned from Vision last night. “We’re not exactly sure, really. We don’t know what was done to the handful of people Lobe managed to… enhance already. We only really know about his initial plans, which involved _harvesting_ from mutants. To somehow transfer their powers to a person who doesn’t have the X-gene.” She nods, directing him to go on. “But we believe he may now be working with the M-gene. We know he has access to it.”

She shakes her head and frowns. “What would they do with the M-gene? As a carrier, sure, someone could manifest _powers_. Under the right circumstances.” Her gaze ticks over to Bruce, not so subtly travelling the length of his body. “Extreme radiation, say.” She lets out a quick sigh and turns back to Tony. “But a genetically _normal_ person? Well, MGH can’t be produced in someone infected with the M-gene. No hormone, no powers.”

“Sorry,” Bruce says, leaning forward intently. “What do you mean, _infected_?”

She glances over at him briefly before releasing a loud, annoyed huff. “The M-gene doesn’t _do_ anything in people who aren’t carriers. Even if spliced in. It’s as though it _knows_ it doesn’t belong. It’s completely inert.”

“But Tessa discovered years ago that, when spliced into the right DNA sequence and exposed to high enough levels of a specific type of radiation, the gene will… turn on and begin producing the Mutant Growth Hormone, thus allowing the host to develop powers like those found in carriers of the X-gene.” He pauses, brow wrinkled as he replays all that he just said in his head. “Right?”

She nods then, emitting an airy _ah_. “Yes, _Anna_ found something to that effect.” Then she shakes her head. “But… no. What she really found was that MGH was produced in hosts – _animal_ hosts – when an already irradiated cluster of M-gene-containing cells was injected into it. Provided the host offered a hospitable enough environment to ensure that the cells could effectively replicate. _But_ , they never found that the hormone could be produced in humans.” She peers disapprovingly over the top rims of her glasses at him as she asks, “You never actually _read_ any of the research, did you?”

His face pulls into a tight frown. “Well, no. I mean, nothing was ever published… there was no finalized report. But… wouldn’t it stand to reason – ”

She raises a single pointed finger as she once more jumps in to interrupt. “Even if the results of the animal studies could be replicated in human hosts, the results – which you apparently have very little knowledge of – showed that hormone production occurred quite differently than it did in an X-gene carrier.”

“How so?”

She shrugs vaguely. “The amount of MGH that was produced varied considerably depending on the biology of the host. Some animals died right away. The hypothalamus, which produced the hormone, would… burn out. And the host would die from lack of sleep, or hypothermia. Even hy _per_ thermia occurred, causing a sort of awful… combustion. Nothing they did could regulate production, so every time they ran a trial and infected another host, it was a terrible gamble. And the animals that _did_ survive longer than a few days, well, they nearly all went mad.”

“Mad?”

She nods and raises a single, knowing brow. “Utterly mad. _I_ hypothesize that it was the unregulated fluctuations of MGH in their systems that caused it. Too much led to a physical high. It would taper off, creating symptoms of withdrawal. Increase again and they’d become more addicted.” She shrugs. “Of course, I wasn’t involved in that particular study… never got my hands on any of the actual specimens. I only received what results Anna was willing to send me. So this is all conjecture.”

It’s Bucky who speaks up next, a confounded – and suspicious – look on his face when he asks coolly, “Why would she send you results from experiments that she was performing for another company?”

She bristles a bit as his accusing tone. And at the question itself. “Well… you see… Anna and I had a rather… unique relationship. For years, she was my protégé. We worked together on… well, on _so_ much. And this research, in many ways it was sort of a continuation of our previous experiments.”

“You mean when you and _Tessa_ and Henry McCoy isolated MGH from the X-gene,” he utters, no question to his voice.

She stares at him unblinking. “Yes. That’s correct.”

Bruce clears his throat to break their tense stare down and regain the doctor’s attention. “ _That_ is the research that she was taken for. That’s what Lobe wants… to isolate MGH from the X-gene.”

She nods. “That would make sense. I imagine that if he’s been successful at all, he’s either managed to replicate the M-gene results in human hosts – which I would think was to their extreme detriment if he was actually able to manage it all. _Or_ he’s pulling MGH directly from X-gene carriers… extracting it and injecting it into a host. And the results of that would be limited and temporary. And likely fatal for the donor, which, of course, means a limited supply. Yes,” she issues out slowly, pursing her lips in thought as she nods along. “The best solution would be to isolate the hormone. Then he could replicate it in a lab and create a steady supply for the host.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably as he ekes out, “Fatal?”

She turns to him. “Yes, most likely. MGH is produced in the hypothalamus. Very tricky to reach without causing brain damage. And of course, many of the hormones produced by the hypothalamus are responsible for basic autonomic functions. So any damage to it could be catastrophic.”

He blanches at her words and pulls in a shuddering breath before slowly falling back into his chair.

“But, then again, I suppose he could have found another way. Others have isolated the hormone in the past.”

“They have?” Tony asks, utterly taken aback.

“Yes, of course. Just… not as well. Or as _completely_. Or without complication.” She waves her hands wildly about. “People have done it… to varying results. It can be a terribly convoluted process. What Henry and Anna and I did… it was _clean_. And reliable. It _worked_. And we only had to go through four cadaver glands!” She laughs heartily to herself before releasing a long sigh and shaking her head wistfully. “Our process certainly would be the best to follow. We were able to easily isolate the hormone and successfully replicate it in a laboratory… no animal host needed. That’s how we were able to continue our experimentation and take that next step in the process to inhibit the hormone’s ability to produce its known effect.” She glances around at the befuddled faces. “All of which is to say, yes, were I _him_ , I too would want my research. And that,” she says with a wide smile and a snap of her fingers, “is one of the preeminent reasons why I do not leave my island.”

“Well it’s a little late for us to lock Tessa up on an island somewhere,” Tony mutters.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she agrees.

“I’m curious,” Bruce mutters softly before clearing his throat. He shifts slowly forward in his seat, training an inquisitive gaze on the doctor. “Why _did_ you and Tessa – and Dr. McCoy – want to inhibit the effects of MGH? I mean… this is the Mutant Research Center. I would think that you’d want to do work here that _benefited_ mutants.”

She cocks her head at him, an expression of utter bewilderment taking over her face. “Dr. Banner, what in the world makes you think that we _weren’t_ doing that for the benefit of mutants?”

“Well…” His mouth slowly opens and closes, no additional words managing to collect.

She peers at him, her deep blue eyes suddenly turning dark, the tenor of her words dropping into a despairing sort of gloom. “Did _Tessa_ ever tell you…” She stops herself short and pulls a long breath in through her nose as she calmly leans back and folds her hands together in her lap. “Do you know about _Anna_?”

He nods, but it’s Wanda who speaks, her soft voice just barely echoing throughout the small room. “We know about Anna… and about what Professor Xavier did to… to _create_ Tessa.”

“And you know why he did what he did?” she asks, turning her penetrating gaze on Wanda.

“Yes,” she says with a solemn nod. “We know.”

Dr. MacTaggert continues to stare ahead at the young woman for another long moment before sighing deeply and stating, “Mutants are still people. And people – even the strongest people – are inherently _weak_. Their minds… their bodies…”

“Tessa’s not weak,” Bucky mutters, the words coming out low and deep and seemingly just for himself.

She looks at him, eyes trained on his slumped posture, trembling hands, exhausted pallor. “Her power is great, always has been. Too much for such a little thing.” She smiles lightly, her gaze drifting towards nothing as she thinks back and reminisces about the girl she knew so long ago. “But she was… belligerent. _Strong_. Yes. She’s always been strong-willed. Strong-minded.”

She clears her throat suddenly, fleeing the recollections playing back in her mind. Her eyes tick back to Bucky’s waiting gaze. “Not just anyone could’ve done what she did. I don’t know if there’s another living being that could’ve defeated the Phoenix. Jean was strong. But she failed… let the force wash over her. Charles…” She lets out a small, trilling laugh. “Charles was the most powerful man I think I’ve ever known. Not just because of his mutation, but because of his _control_. True power is determined by how you _use_ the gifts you’re given,” she says with a wink.

“But he couldn’t take on the Phoenix either,” Bucky mutters quietly, finishing her thought.

She shakes her head. “No. He could not. But Anna could. And did. And after that…” She shrugs and lets out a long, pained sigh. “Things changed for her after that. You see, some powers are simply too much for a human being to bear.” Her gaze quickly drops down to the tangled hands in her lap. “That’s how it was for my son.”

“Your son’s a mutant?” Bruce asks. He waits for her to look up and turn her attention back his way. “Is that why, then? Why you wanted to stop the effects of the hormone? You wanted to help your son?”

She nods slowly – “Yes.” – and averts her eyes once again. “But it all came too late for him, I’m afraid.” She pulls in a deep, portending breath, an oddly menacing grin splitting her face when she looks back up, gaze bouncing among everyone in the room. “I asked Henry to come to help me find a way to stop Kevin’s powers from… eating away at him. Anna had just finished her schooling, and she _needed_ to get away from New York. And she was so smart. And willing. And she adored Kevin,” she says with a bright laugh, despite the tears collecting behind her eyes. “But I must admit, I brought her here mostly for her power. Like I said, not just anyone could’ve done what she did.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat, brows tautly knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“Proteus,” Tony mumbles, almost to himself. He rises from his chair and steps behind it, dropping his hands down to clench the back of the seat as he shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. “Lobe said something about…” His forehead crinkles in thought. “The Proteus Incident. That’s what he called it.”

McTaggert looks up at him with an oddly blank expression. “Yes. Proteus.” She nods for a long moment before barking out a quick laugh. “Charles and his _names_! He encouraged all the children to create some sort of silly code name… _superhero_ name. He thought it would help them to be proud of who they were. _What_ they were.” The small smile tumbles from her face, a darkly bitter frown taking its place. “Silly, really. _Proteus_. _Supernova_. All of them. They were just children playing at… at being _more_.”

“What was the Proteus Incident, Dr. MacTaggert?” Tony asks, a serious, demanding quality to his tone.

“My son was… pure energy.” She shakes her head sorrowfully. “I tried for so long to get Anna to come here. Her powers… I thought that, perhaps…”

“You thought she could help because she can manipulate energy?” Wanda asks lightly.

“Yes. Yes, I did. I’d hoped. But Jean always kept her away.” Her fists clench tightly, face too screwing up with a deeply buried fury. “She never trusted me. She thought I’d… I don’t know what she thought.” Her fingers quickly flex and release, a tight shrug being all it takes for the frightful anger to fall off of her – the abrupt mood change, yet again, startling and confusing the others in the room. She looks up at Wanda, light eyes seeping sincerity when she utters, “I would never have hurt that child. Not even to save my own.”

Wanda nods. “But you wanted her here… later. For her power?”

“In case it didn’t work.” A single tear leaks from her eye. “And it didn’t. Not for Kevin.” Her head whips back and forth as she goes on. “By the time we finished the process and created the treatment… he’d become so bitter. So angry. He didn’t want it. He lashed out. He… killed a few people,” she finishes with a noncommittal sort of shrug. She sighs again, swiping away an additional tear and looking back at the others in the room. “Anna did what she had to… to save us. To save herself. To save Kevin from himself.”

“She killed him?”

The doctor nods. “And I never… I didn’t _blame_ her, you see. But I…”

Wanda scoots closer to the desk, reaches out and offers a delicate hand to the woman. MacTaggert glances down at it and quickly, without reservation, collects it in her own, squeezing tightly. “That was the… falling out that you had? Tessa said…”

“Yes.” She smiles softly, gratefully, and gives Wanda’s hand one more swift squeeze before dropping it and leaning back in her chair again. “I simply couldn’t… see her after that. We still stayed in touch. But… well, I told her she couldn’t come back here. And I… well, you see…” A slight huff escapes her parted lips as she tries to find the words. “I still _feel_ him here. Kevin. The _good_ parts of him. So I can’t leave. Not ever. I… I _won’t_ leave this island.”

The entire room falls into a solemn silence, a grave quality cloaking the air around them. For a brief moment, they all seem to forget just why they’ve even come to this dark, sad place… just what it is that they’d hoped to find here. Tony’s hands continue to tightly grip the chairback in front of him. “There’s nothing you can do to help us, is there?” he asks finally, already knowing the answer.

She looks up at him. “I imagine that, since you’re here, you haven’t had much luck elsewhere? Have you spoken to Charles?”

Bucky shakes his head slowly. “Xavier took off with the other X-Men months ago. No clue where they are.”

She nods simply – “He sensed danger.” – and huffs out a quick breath. “But he would… he would _know_ now. If Anna needed him, Charles would know. And he would come running. Of that I’ve no doubt.”

“We haven’t been able to find them,” he tells her, the words falling slowly – dismally – from his lips. “And he hasn’t contacted us.”

“Well, then… either she’s not in as much danger as you think, or…”

He narrows his eyes at her, a dangerous gleam lighting his eyes. “Or what?” he nearly growls out.

She raises a single, knowing brow. “ _Or_ you should be very concerned about the lot of them as well.”

Tony cocks his head at her, not nearly as concerned by her ominous comment as the others seem to be. “Dr. McCoy? Have you spoken to him? Or… do you know where he might be?”

Another firm headshake. “Last I heard, Henry had shut himself away in a private laboratory somewhere in the Urals. He always liked to be alone. To _focus_. He’d disappear for months, sometimes years at a time. I haven’t seen him since… what did you call it, Mr. Stark? The _Proteus Incident_.”

His cheeks redden just a bit, guilt building in his gut. “Is there _anyone_ ,” he starts, trying to shake loose the feeling, “who can help us?”

“Perhaps,” she says, thick accent curling about the slowly uttered word. “I’ve worked with many people over the years. Many people who’ve done work on the X-gene. Granted I haven’t spoken to any of them in a decade or more, so there’s no telling if they’re in the same field. Or even still alive,” she finishes with a peculiar wink.

“We’ll take whatever we get,” Bucky sputters out. “You got names?”

She nods and slowly rises from her seat. “I’ll have one of my assistants compile a list for you,” she says with a soft smile as she holds out an arm and waves her fingers in a _follow along_ gesture as she glides from the room. Just outside the small office, two men stand sentry-like in the hall, clearly eager to lead the intrusive group from the building. “These gents’ll show you out.”

Bucky halts and stiffens, turning to face the doctor. “What did she do?” he asks, the words spilling suddenly from his tongue, tumbling one over the next. “What did she do to your son?”

The almost comical, detached grin pulls at her lips yet again as she stares at the man. “You’re close with her,” she states, knowing eyebrow raised. Her eyes track over the rest of the team, all stilled just outside her door. “You all are. Not just… workmates.”

Bucky’s face falls, sad gaze dropping to the floor for a brief moment before he steels his posture and looks into the doctor’s eyes. “She’s my wife,” he says, voice strong and firm.

“Well, how lovely.” Her smile gradually brightens into something far more genuine and sincere –  “Lovely.” – before dropping away from her face entirely. “You haven’t any children, though, have you?”

He shakes his head _no_.

“Good,” she utters, reaching up to gently pat him on the shoulder. “That’s good. Children are a blessing, you see…” Her hand tightens around him for a lingering moment, her eyes darkening as she stares deeply into his. “But _mutant_ children are a curse I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”


	43. No Time Beyond Then and Now

They try to make her talk.

First in that tiny room in San Francisco when they shoot and kill her friend. Now in this new tiny room, a closet-like space that smells of fresh paint and sterility, an acrid, moldy wetness belying the fresher scents.

But she says nothing. From the moment she wakes, cold and alone in this awful place, she says nothing to any of them.

They try to reason with her. They offer gifts – not just of freedom – but of money and praise and prowess. All she needs to do is tell them what they want to hear. All she needs to give them is the key that they’ve been missing… the one thing that none of them are able to discover on their own.

But she gives them nothing.

They threaten her. They say they’ll _hurt_ her – as though what they’ve already done had caused no pain at all. They say they’ll go back and find Tony – find all of her friends and family, anyone she’s ever cared about – and kill them all.

She laughs. Harsh and biting chuckles spill from her lips as she thinks about these few men – ignorant soldiers and misled scientists – laying waste to the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. It’s absurd. Ludacris. Utterly unimaginable.  

They see her rings – the sparkling emerald and the thick platinum band nestled beside it – and they snatch them away, breaking her fingers – her hand – when she resists. _This is the only piece of jewelry I’ve worn for more than a day and haven’t lost._ They steal them away, pry them from her desperate grasp, and laugh at her pain, telling her that the next loved one to die will be her husband.

She cradles her broken fingers close and chokes on a deep sob, the corners of her mouth ticking up as her cries quickly fade back into laughter. She feels the throbbing from her hand pulsate up her arm with every ragged guffaw. But the absolute preposterousness of their words has her dissolving into a terrifying pool of acrimonious cackles. They don’t know what they’re threatening to do.

They beat her. As though this tactic would entice her speak. They shove her into walls, grab her by the hair and fling her around the room, punch, kick, stomp. Her ears ring, and buried back behind the cacophony she hears Steve’s voice, light and airy… _maybe now you’ll stop dropping your guard_.

She tries to stand – raises her hands to protect her face – and quickly falls, tumbling to the cold tile floor with a screech of pain when a soldier’s boot collides with her knee.

_I think you’re hopeless. I saw you sparring with Sam. It was pretty bad_ , ricochets around in her buzzing brain, a hazy image of a far-too-handsome, far-too-sheepish smile causing her heart to skip a beat.

A split in her lip pumps out salty blood, mingles with salty tears. And all at once she feels a gentle thumb ghost along her face, her own words echoing from far away – _I would really like to kiss you right now._ His choking on a laugh – _I would really rather you didn’t_.

Her nose smashed by a well-place palm strike, a surprise blow that has her stumbling and seeing stars. _Lady doctor!_ An exclamation from so long ago. _What has happened to you?!_ She laughs, light, reminiscent giggles burbling up her throat.

_Thor_. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the alien _god_ came to help… came to her rescue? Wouldn’t it be great to see the air buzz with electricity, lightening striking down the monsters surrounding her?

Storm could do the same. Storm. Where was Storm? Where was Logan? Hadn’t he been able to track her down her whole life. When she ran away as a child… after a fight with Scott… after John. He always found her.

_I found you. I found you bleeding out on the bathroom floor._

Was he looking for her now? Were any of them? What about the Professor? Surely he could feel her now, calling out to him – to anyone who could hear the sharp, trilling tenor of every one of her aflame nerve endings.

_I trust that you are safe with the Avengers._

But… no. He had been wrong. Professor Xavier had been wrong. Did he know that now? Would he come for her now? Could he, even if he wanted to?

“We’re gonna find every last one of you,” one of the soldiers says as he bends over her bleeding body. “We’ve already gotten some,” he issues out with a dangerous sneer. “And when we find the rest, we’ll end them too.”

000

She’s woken by the soft squeak of mattress springs, the bed dipping beside her. The gradual warmth of another body seeps softly into her, the near-constant trembling of her aching bones settling, if only a bit. Then, all at once, she remembers where she is and jolts violently away from the presence at her side, scrambling from the bed. A sharp breath chokes out of her as her broken left hand collides with the floor, catching her as she tumbles.

A soft chuckle lingers above her, the bedsprings shifting again as a blurry figure turns to gaze down at her. “You’re afraid I’m going to hurt you,” he says, his voice deep and languid. “Well, I suppose you do have reason to fear.”

She blinks rapidly, her dry eyes gritty and burning. The harsh fluorescent lights bite at the edges of her already compromised vision – her contacts finally having become both useless and painful, and as a result, eagerly removed days ago.

Days ago… had it been days? Longer?

A few more throbbing blinks, a far-too-furrowed brow, and she’s finally able to make out the face of the man leaning over her. Lobe.

He sits back down on the mattress and quirks his fingers at her, a silent beckoning. When she responds by pulling further away from him and pressing her tightly coiled body into the wall, he merely lets out an annoyed sigh and slides across the bed. He flings his legs over the side and rests his elbows on his knees as he looks down at her, a thoughtful set to his features as he watches her cower.

“You don’t think this has gone on long enough?” he asks her finally.

He waits for her to answer, both brows raised high as he continues to study her face. But what should she say? What _can_ she say? Has it been long enough? Probably.

He emits another long sigh, this one less irritated and more… defeated. “What is it that you think is going to happen, Dr. Sullivan?” he asks with a hint of mockery. “Do you think that your boss will talk his Avenger friends into coming for you?”

Another pause. Another lingering stare as he awaits an answer he surely knows will not come. Inside, deep down inside of her, a small voice yells, _Yes! Of course, they’ll come!_ But on the surface, her face shows nothing more than a blank sort of fatigue.

The looming bald man shrugs. “I suppose perhaps he does _owe you_. What you did for him…” He lets out a sharp _tsk tsk tsk_ as his head slowly pivots back and forth. “Well, just look at you. You put everything that you had into saving Stark. And now you have _nothing_.”

Nothing? Her brows twist tightly together, face pulling into a confused frown.

Not nothing. She’d begun to feel again. It had taken time – how much time? – but finally, slowly, her powers were beginning to stir within, returning in small starts and sputters. A slight tingling in her aching fingertips. A barely there hum in the back of her head.

She’d begun to feel them all… each and every person sent into her tiny room, their energy sloughing off and hitting her senses before they ever even open the door.

There’s the young soldier who outwardly exudes confidence and self-assurance, but actually _feels_ terror in her presence. The sight of her spikes a dark trepidation inside of him, one that steadily wanes as he beats her, leaving room for a new vibrant, commanding energy to take over. She likes to pull from it – just enough to cause a small smug smile to roll across her lips, even as her ribs crack beneath his boots.

And there’s another soldier who’s just plain _sorry_. Every time he sees her – though his face is tight and still and expressionless, his eyes showing no sympathy nor sorrow – he feels remorse burning in his gut. She breaths a sigh of relief when his energy is felt looming outside her door. Whether he – or the others – realize it or not, he always pulls his punches.

There’s a woman too, dressed as a nurse, though Tessa knows better than to think that her role here is purely one of providing aide. The woman is guarded, her emotions buried deep, energy hard to discern. All she ever really receives from her are small hits of excitement… jubilation.

Then there’s Scofield. It had been some time since she’d seen him – how much time? But when he was here, he seemed… oddly different. She had gotten to know his energy quite well when they worked together in Minsk. He had been a familiar presence. Not anymore. Now he was… hectic. Harried. Irritable. Angry. But also terribly eager. Excited. Hopeful. His energy was a frantic mix of emotions, a whirlwind that – she’s fairly certain – even he couldn’t hope to cope with.

And then there’s Lobe…

She looks back up at the man in front of her now, stares at him long and hard, notes the way he simply stares back, not an ounce of discomfort or impatience in his expression. Throughout all of his visits, she’s never able to discern a single thing about his energy. He is an enigma to her. And that scares her more than any physical threat ever could.

He leans further forward – “I have a little secret to tell you.” – and he slowly slides from the edge of the bed, coming to rest before her, kneeling just inches away from her. “No one is looking for you,” he whispers softly in her ear. “No one’s even reported you missing.”

He leans back on his heels, cocking his head to again study her face for any sort of reaction. But there is nothing. Nothing beyond a sort of calm detachment and mild curiosity.

“I suppose Stark was angered by the fact that you undermined the research he’d been sinking millions of dollars into. I, for one, would do everything in my power to get you back after something like that,” he says, reaching out and laying a feathery caress along her cheek. “Just so I could kill you myself.”

She flinches at his touch. Her expression unchanging, voice still utterly absent. But the small recoil is enough of a reaction to bring a wide, menacing smile to his face.

“Ah, I nearly forgot,” he spits out suddenly, the boom of his voice startling her and causing her head to slam back into the wall. He grins again, catching the frightened movement from the corner of his eye as he digs into his breast pocket. “Looks like Stark isn’t the only one who seems… unconcerned about your whereabouts.”

Her eyes flit down to the shimmer coming from the palm of his hand, a pair of bright, shiny rings resting against his pale flesh. Even through the blur brought on by her lack of glasses, the haze of a deep-rooted fatigue, and the awful glare of the severe lights, she’s able to make out the familiar deep green of her emerald.

“Who is this husband of yours, I wonder?” he muses lightly, snapping his fist shut to hide her jewelry. “What kind of man doesn’t even report his wife missing after…” His eyes dart back to hers. “Do you even know how long it’s been?” he asks with a crooked smile.

She says nothing. Her voice is gone, utterly spent from too many agonizing shouts. Every word they tried time and time again to pull out of her, dead and dried up on her tongue. But… how long _had_ it been? Her forehead crinkles in thought. There’s simply no way to tell day from night in this room… this _cell_. It had been many days, many nights, she supposed. But she’d long ago lost the ability to keep track.

Her gaze is pulled back down, back to his hand, as a tiny flicker of light bounces off of the rings he now rolls carelessly about. He tucks the emerald ring back beneath two folded fingers, hiding it in his grasp, as he slowly rotates her platinum wedding band between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. “Hm,” he hums out, eyes narrowing as he investigates the ring. There’s an inscription on the inside, a simple word scrawled into this everlasting metal. “Forever.” He looks up at her through slitted eyes. “Forever?” he breathes out, contemplative quality to his voice. In a flash, the ring disappears from his fingertips, folded back into the hidden recesses of his tightly fisted hand. “I wonder… What exactly do you think _forever_ means for you?”

Her eyes widen, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. _Whatever forever means for us… I want to spend forever with you._

He studies her closely for a moment more, clearly hoping that she follows up her gasp with some words… with some sort of broken utterance or fear-induced confession. When nothing – save a small shudder – emits from her, he rises slowly, the shadow of his long, lean body encasing her in shadow. “Your time is up, Dr. Sullivan,” he tells her as he looms gruesomely over her abused body. “I have asked nicely, and you have refused me.” His large leather shoe shoots out, swiftly colliding with her hip and pulling a soft yelp from her lips. “No one stays in this facility without contributing to the cause. One way or another, I will get something out of you.”

000

Lobe had not retuned. How long had it been since his visit? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months?

The longer she lingers in this place, the harder it becomes to distinguish time of any sort. One moment bleeds into the next, yet a single breath halts in her chest and sticks to her ribs, cementing her in limbo for years. There is no time beyond _then_ and _now._ There is no space beyond _this_ tiny room. There is no feeling beyond _hurt_ and _ache._

She shifts slowly on the now-bare mattress, biting her lip against the agony. There’s a pain emanating from… everywhere. From the very center of her being. From her chest to her fingertips. From the deepest recesses of her soul to the most active parts of her conscious mind. Everywhere, it hurts.

_How can you be so damn stubborn?_

The question flits through her tattered mind, echoing in different voices, varied cadences, teasing lilts and angry intonations. It’s a question that she’s been confronted with time and time again for as long as she can remember.

_Why are you so stubborn?_

And the truth is, she doesn’t know. It’s just something that she… is. And never before has being who she _is_ been so painful.

The room is small, filled with too much light – the harsh fluorescents blinding her all hours of the day and night. No windows. No view of the outside world. As far as she knows, there no longer is an outside world. Just this. Just a too small, too bright room with nothing more than a naked bed at its center – where she can curl into a tight, pained ball and weep – and a toilet in the corner – where she can empty her stomach after almost meal she eats.

They poison the food, she’s sure of it. They’re too eager to get her to eat, to have her take even just one bite. So she stops eating altogether.

They want her to talk, to tell them all her secrets, release details of her research. So she becomes mute.

They want her to scream, to shout in pain, to verify that their fists and weapons and steel-toed boots are getting across the intended message. So she suffers in utter silence.

They want her to break. So she holds strong, knits herself up with desperate hopes and fleeting prayers and above all else, plain old pig-headed stubbornness. She will not _break_. She will not give them anything that they want.

She plans and plots and lies in wait, working to push away the call – _A supernova can outshine entire galaxies. It can put out more energy than you could ever dream possible._ – and instead gathers her strength, collects all of the energy she can to ensure success.

The sensing of energies, that has always come naturally to her. But so many other gifts still require effort on her part. All of the work she had done at the beginning of the year with Xavier – everything she had remembered, relived – it had brought her just close enough to _know_ what she could do, if only she tried hard enough, focused strongly enough, willingly trusted herself enough. But it is _hard._

She may only get one chance. And she needs to be stronger than this, more focused. But every moment spent in this place strips her strength back just a little bit more so that she begins to wonder, _What am I waiting for?_

It’s days… or weeks or months – maybe only hours, really – after Lobe leaves that a new officer enters her room. He’s dressed in a drab green US Army uniform. _United States_?

He’s a sergeant. No. A captain.

He wastes no time introducing himself, says nothing to her at all before striding over and backhanding her across the face, sending her sprawling to the cold tile floor. Then he leans over her, grabbing her chin and wrenching her towards him. Spittle flies from his lips as he commands, “Stop fucking around and tell us how to isolate the hormone!”

The buzzing in her ears grows and she can feel her face burning where his flesh broke hers… and where his fingers now bruise. She can see his aura suddenly come to life around him, bright red angry flames licking around his skull. She hasn’t spoken in days – has it only been days? And she has no intention of breaking her silence now. But she also feels a _need_ to respond, to tell him just exactly what she _thinks_ of his request, and the manner of it. So she pulls at the insides of her cheeks, collects a wad of thick, blood-laced saliva, and spits directly into his wide open eye.

He drops her at once, flying backward as he viciously wipes at his face. The soldier at his side says something, asks if he’s alright, perhaps. She can barely hear over the buzzing of her own vitriol coupled with the sheer volume of his.

But… _Wait_ , she tells herself, still unsure, still so hesitant to use her God-given gifts. _Just wait._

He stands above her, staring down with oddly vacant eyes for a long moment. Then he kicks her, a blow harder than any she’s ever received before. He kicks her in the side, he stomps her rib cage until it shatters. He thrusts the heel of his boot into her chest cavity.

She screams, an unholy sound that causes a trilling sort of fear to burst to life from the soldier at his side. He has a right to fear.

She tries to pull in a breath, but nothing comes… nothing but biting, stinging, burning pain. It’s like drowning all over again. She’s drowning in her own blood, drowning in her own destroyed tissues as the obviously collapsed lung sputters inside of her, refusing to expand. She feels the captain’s energy wane, trail away slowly, and she knows he’s left the room. As has the terrified soldier.

She rolls onto her back and stares up at the bright white ceiling, notes the way darkness begins to creep in at the edges. She gets no chance after all. _Your time is up, Dr. Sullivan._

She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. But all her body allows her to do is wait to die.

Then a hand drops to her shoulder, small and hesitant. And she turns, laying her own shaky hand atop the foreign one. She recognizes her face – the _nurse_ – blurry and indistinct though it is. She recognizes her energy, a giddy sort of excitement bubbling as she watches Tessa sputter and choke before her… an almost childlike curiosity blooming in her cold eyes.

_You pulled his energy._ The Professor’s voice echoes in her ears, overriding whatever useless words the nurse is issuing out. _His… life force. And you made it your own._

She wraps her fingers around the woman’s hand, gently at first, a mere tug. Then she tightens her grip, latches on and – in no more than a fraction of a second – winds the bright blue tendrils of energy around her, sending them up her arm, circling them around her neck before breaking violently into her chest. And she pulls back, tugging the woman’s _life force_ inside of her.

Her ribs right themselves – even if not mending fully – and her lungs inflate once again, a gasping, retching breath filling her chest. Her entire body burns and vibrates, tingles and shudders. The hum deafens her to the sounds now filling the chaotic room. The bright blue light shining from within blinds her to the men who enter, pulling the utterly drained woman off of her. The thick shuddering of her mending bones, quivering of healing flash, masks the prick of the needle shoved into her neck.

The blue light dwindles – _blink, blink_ – and the world fades to black. A single voice plays over all the noise gathering in her unconscious mind. A voice and words she had forgotten she’d even heard. One from days ago. Days? Weeks? Months perhaps? _That’s the power I want!_

And the cold reality seeps into her bones as the even colder oblivion sets in. She’s given him what he wants after all.


	44. Jamie

Of the five names given to them by Moira MacTaggert, two were out of the business entirely – and of absolutely no help – and two had died within the past couple of years, both under mysterious circumstances. Only one remained – Dr. Elizabeth Spangler. But she had disappeared years ago… not a trace found since the early 2000s. The search continued, of course. As it did for any other piece of information – no matter how seemingly small and insignificant. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, leads were drying up, hope slowly dying and decaying like the early winter leaves that crunched beneath their feet.

Not long after Tessa was taken, Rhodey had a led a small raid on a newly built, rather suspicious-seeming installation out in the Yukon. But it was to no avail, nothing to see there but empty, stagnate buildings covered in snow. He continued to monitor several different locations, all of which popped up as sites run by Canada’s Department of Defense. But so far… nothing.

Natasha and a fresh-out-of-retirement Clint had been spending the last couple of months bouncing around the globe on recon missions, eager to discover _anything_ that might point them in the right direction. But most of what they’d found thus far had done little more than send them spinning in circles, no hint of a direct course in sight.

Tony – with the help of SI tech – had begun a campaign to monitor Secretary Ross and any others in high-power positions who were publicly – or privately – advocating for anti-mutant legislation. He had hoped that they’d stumble upon hushed conversations or secret correspondence with Canadian officials. Perhaps they’d learn about clandestine plans to house a research facility in an off-the-books locale. They’d investigate, storm the place, take them all by surprise, find Lobe and the others and, well… end them. Then they’d find Tessa – safe and whole and unharmed – and they’d bring her home.

But so far, none of their bugs had picked up any worthwhile intel. And the hope of finding Tessa unscathed was truly beginning to feel like little more than a naïve fantasy.

Atkinson had swiftly been sent back to her post in Toronto, working as the personal assistant to Scofield’s old business partner. But not a week in, Stan Markum emptied his bank accounts, packed his belongings, and disappeared into the night without a word to anyone. Now she – like the rest of the tier two team – is holed up at the compound, sifting through cataloged files on Department H and decades-old intel on Sublime, Weapon X, and anyone or anything that just _might_ have a connection to or an interest in creating human weapons.

Vision and Wanda have been spending their days focusing on intel related to that _other_ part of Tessa’s life, the part that only her closest friends and family know about. For weeks and weeks, they’ve been combing through the SHIELD files that Natasha had released years ago, searching for anything related to her or the X-Men or anyone else who might know something about the current threat to mutants. But wading through the oftentimes redacted material was painfully slow going, even with Vision’s computer-chip brain. And the deeper they got into it all, the more they both started sputtering with wild theories, seeing connections that likely weren’t really there at all.

Even those most unlikely suggestions made their way to Steve, though. Any potentially helpful information that either of the groups came across hit his desk, where he’d spend day after day, night after night sifting through all of the unlikely notions, desperate conjecture, misinformation, dead-end leads, and ultimately false hopes. When he wasn’t at his desk, he and Sam and Bucky were out turning over stones in a desperate search for the X-Men. But like Tessa, they too had vanished without a trace.

The hard truth was – and it was a truth that none of them were yet willing to accept – they had absolutely _nothing_ to go on. Tessa was not just missing, not just taken. She was _gone._

000

Steve is spent. Utterly. Completely. Totally. Just… spent. His mind has been whirring for so damn long that it’s finally begun to break. At least, that’s how it feels.

Thanks to the serum flowing through his veins, he can’t even remember the last time he had a headache. But right now, as he lumbers exhaustedly through the hall of the residences, it feels as though his skull may actually be splitting apart. He presses the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose, thrusting his eyes shut as the grotesque image of a mushy brain slowly leaking from a fissure in his skull pops to mind.

“Whoa,” he hears, the word barked out in a surprised rumble. And his eyes fly open as he halts himself before colliding with the large man before him. Bucky reaches out and lays a stilling, steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder – Steve’s pained wince not going unnoticed. “You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled with concern.

“Uh,” he sputters for a moment, righting himself physically as he tries to rapidly blink away the fogginess that’s been settling in his brain. “Yeah.”

Bucky’s frown intensifies, the worry lines that have become permanently etched across his face over the past couple of months deepening in a way that causes Steve’s heart to ache. But then he raises a single skeptical brow and cocks his head to the side, and the expression is just so… _Bucky_ that Steve can’t help the small laugh that burbles up his throat.

“Yeah,” he repeats, voice worn, but somehow clearer than just a moment ago. He rubs at the back of his head as he sighs out, “Sorry,” amid a crooked, sheepish grin.

“I thought you were going to bed,” Bucky says, a hint of accusation to his words as his eyes rove the Captain’s body, taking in the same rumpled clothes he’d been wearing at their meeting last night. It was now five in the morning, and it was plainly obvious from Steve’s appearance that he had _not_ gone back to his apartment to sleep as he had promised a rather concerned Wanda he would do.

He lets out a long breath. “There were just a few things I wanted to check on. Time got away from me,” he says with a weak shrug. He narrows his eyes at the man in front of him, only now taking in his attire – jogging pants and a dark gray, sweat-soaked hoodie. His cheeks are flushed, a bright rosiness to his nose that could only come from being out in the newly cracked cold. “Did you go for a run?”

Bucky ducks his head shyly and clears his throat, the frown returning full force to his features as he mutters a soft, “Yeah.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, though he’s not sure why. There’s something about the standoffish way his friend’s posture just set that has him feeling suddenly on edge. “You should’ve come to get me. I’d have gone with you.”

He blows out a quick snort of a laugh – “You were supposed to be sleeping.” – and looks up at Steve with cool gray eyes. There’s a fleeting moment of connection – of understanding and comfort and love – when their gazes meet. But all too quickly, Bucky shakes his head, averts his eyes, and mutters, “I just wanted… I just needed… to clear my head.”

Steve nods. “Yeah. I get that.” And he shuffles the slightest bit forward. “Still, if you ever do want company…” His words hang in the air, an unanswered plea just as much as an unfinished thought. He lets out a soft, awkward laugh, hand again rising to the back of his head, fingertips pressing harshly into his aching skull. “I feel like I only ever see you at mission updates and debriefs.”

Bucky’s eyes bounce back up and meet his, an element of surprise to his stare. “Yeah, well,” he starts before gnawing briefly on the corner of his lip. “I’ve been around.”

The deeply buried accusation in his words isn’t lost on Steve. There’s no bitterness in his utterance, no anger or blame. But it’s a painful truth all the same. Bucky _had_ been around. He’d been stepping softly about the compound – looming quietly in the corners, sticking to the shadows, avoiding his empty apartment – for weeks. No. For months. It’s Steve who hasn’t been around, too busy with his own thoughts and plans. Too preoccupied with his own weighty guilt.

He gives a quick, sharp tug at his blond locks, realizing as he does so that he’s overdue for a haircut. If there’s one person who would’ve called him out for that, it’s Tessa. “Sorry,” he breathes out as his hand drops from his head. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been… busy.” A small smile pulls at the corners of his lips as he mutters, head shaking slowly, “If Tess heard me say that, she’d be reading me the riot act.”

Bucky emits a sardonic snort in agreement. “Typical. She works more than anyone but has no problem telling other people not to burn the candle at both ends.”

Steve glances up at Bucky and chuckles. “That’s _exactly_ how she’d put it too. _You keep burning the candle at both ends, you’ll just end up –_ ”

“Lost in the dark and covered in hot wax,” he finishes with a short laugh of his own. His gaze drifts off towards nothing, a softness lighting his eyes. “She’s shit at following her own advice.”

Steve nods languidly. “I feel like this last year… she was hardly even here. Always in the city or Seattle. Or maybe hidden away in a lab somewhere.” A deep sigh shudders out of him. “But now she’s _really_ not here. And this place just feels… so empty.”

Bucky looks down to his feet, the toe of his sneaker jutting into the hardwood floor, leaving a thick black scuff. “Yeah,” he breathes out.

“I keep thinking,” Steve starts, the words spilling out of him before he even gets a chance to consider what he’s about to say. “I keep thinking about… how we could’ve avoided this. All of the… bad calls and…” His head begins to pivot sorrowfully back and forth. “All the ways I fucked up.”

“We _all_ fucked up,” Bucky’s quick to correct.

His friend’s words cause him to start. He looks over and catches Bucky’s painfully sincere gaze, and the two nod in slow unison. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Bucky’s eyes blink shut as he pulls in a stilted breath. “Tessa fucked up,” he mutters softly, the words barely more than a rumbled whisper. He glances up slowly, takes in Steve’s somber stare, and shrugs. “She did.”

He nods again, the splitting pain in his head creeping up behind his eye. A mere, “Hm,” falls from his lips in a cautious agreement.

“You can talk all day long about the bad calls you made. And I can beat the hell outta myself for… for not being there. But the truth is… she pushed and pushed and pushed to be part of that damn op.”

“Yeah.”

“And she refused – every step of the way – to take the threat seriously. I _told_ her…” He stops short, choking back a sudden, tight sob, swallowing down the abrupt swell of emotion. He chews hesitantly at the corner of his lip, an old habit Steve remembers from way, way back in the day. A nervous tick that only ever came about when Bucky talked about his father, or about his time in Azzano… or his imprisonment shortly thereafter. “I told her I had a bad feeling,” he says finally, his voice raw. “And she just…”

“Yeah,” Steve utters again, mentally groaning at his lack of response. He lets out another long sigh. “Well, she’s never really been good at… gauging a threat level.” A soft chuckle pulls from his chest, rumbling out into in the tense silence between them. “You should ask Tony about the time she and Bruce set the lab on fire.” He shakes his head absently, a wistful air perking the edges of his voice. “I don’t know what exactly she did. But I do know that the only thing Bruce would say to her for _weeks_ was, ‘ _Explosive_. _Material_. _Hazard_.’ Just like that… like he’d warned her a million times about whatever it was, and she just…” His voice trails off, the soft reminiscent smile falling gradually into a weak frown. “She’s the smartest person I know. And sometimes… the stupidest.”

Bucky releases his raw bottom lip and grins crookedly at his friend. “As soon as she gets back, I’m telling her you said that.”

“Yeah, well… I’m telling her you blame her for getting kidnapped,” he chimes, eyes wide with mischief.

A small, airy laugh spills from Bucky’s lips as he mutters under his breath, “She’ll kill us both.”

Steve shrugs. “Nah. She’ll probably just pace and yell for twenty minutes, then give us the silent treatment.”

The two men share a quick laugh, a sudden swell of comfort rising in the air around them before slowly fading, leaving them both bathed once again in the cold, silent atmosphere of the hollow hall outside Bucky and Tessa’s apartment.

“I can’t remember the last thing I said to her,” Bucky mutters, almost to himself. He blows out a long, deep sigh and shakes his head slowly – soberly – back and forth. “We were arguing,” he admits, glancing up at Steve with a quirked brow. “She was refusing to wear underwear.”

A short, surprised laugh falls from his lips as he barks out, “What?”

“Ran out of clean clothes,” he replies simply. “She wouldn’t wait for me to finish the laundry.” He snorts out a bitter, scornful chortle. “I was so pissed. Pissed that she wouldn’t wait… that she’d rather go off with Stark. Pissed that she was going anywhere at all. She didn’t even go to the debrief the night before. That’s how _not_ worried she was about… everything.”

“She just… had other things on her mind,” he tries, attempting to explain away Tessa’s seeming indifference. “You know how she gets about work.”

Bucky nods, yielding to the obvious truth before stating, with a tight, pained shrug “I was pissed that she was choosing work over her own safety. Over me.” His eyes tick up to meet Steve’s. “I said _I love you_. Just like we always do. Even though I was pissed, I damn well said it. But…” He blinks and looks away, once again shaking his head side to side – this time with an exasperated sort of intensity. “It was after she was already out the door.”

“Buck,” Steve breathes out, voice soft and low. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and rocks back onto his heels as he thinks about what to say… about what he even _can_ say. Then it occurs to him that, “The last thing I said to her was, _If you’re not on the mats for training first thing Monday, I’m gonna hunt you down and kick your ass myself._ ” Bucky looks up, brow scrunched in confusion, but lips pulling into a small, quirked smile. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I threatened her. Just before she got kidnapped.”

Amusement lights his features as he states, “That should make you the prime suspect.” The two share a quick laugh, their sniggers slowly fading back into a thick silence that seems to drag on forever. “I miss her,” Bucky mutters, the solemn words cutting harshly into the surrounding quiet. “I just… miss her. So damn much.”

Steve drops his gaze down to the hardwood floor, no longer being able to look his friend in the eye. “I know,” falls from his lips, even as other words tumble aimlessly through his mind.

_I miss her too. I miss her annoying quotes and her immature teasing and her too-damn-sharp wit. I miss the way she looked at me, always so… invested when I bitched about my problems. I miss watching her and Tony banter in the common room. I miss overhearing the hushed giggles shared with Natasha. I miss the cookies delivered to my door… made with Sam’s recipe and her_ love _._

_I miss the way she made you smile. I miss the way she made you laugh. I miss the way she made you… you._

Bucky clears his throat harshly, pulling Steve’s attention back to him. He pulls himself upright with a huff and shuffles his feet forward. “I should go shower,” he breathes out, dropping a hand to Steve’s shoulder as he steps off to the side to pass him. “Barton and Romanov should be getting back from Berlin in an hour.”

“Yeah.”

He tightens his grip on Steve’s arm – “Go get some sleep.” – before releasing and offering a reassuring pat. “We’ll let you know if we get anything solid.”

A final thought plods through Steve’s muddled mind as he silently watches his friend slog the few steps down the hall to his door before disappearing behind it.

_I miss_ you _._

000

Days. Weeks. Months. There is no sense of time here. There is barely even a sense of awake… nor of sleep. There is no rest, no comfort. Just the feeling of fire in her veins. The sting of needles throughout her body. The never-fading, pulsating throb of her head as her brain swells or melts or _burns_ within her skull.

She feels _everything_. She feels the energy and emotions of those around her. And of others somewhere nearby.

_There are others_ , she thinks vaguely, mind wandering quickly away from the realization as she watches with detached wonder as they tighten the straps around her ankles… her calves, her torso, her forearms and wrists. But still she feels them, even if she doesn’t have the wherewithal to realize what all of the fear and grief and pain flitting around the air in this place actually _means_.

_There are others_ , her exhausted brain repeats as she pulls in a tight breath and chokes on the metaphysical stench of death.

Everything she sees is through a thick, colored pane. Faces are fuzzy contortions, bathed in vibrant reds and yellows and purples. Harsh, blinding, _loud_ colors. There are no soft pastel auras here. No calm, soothing energies. There is only a brash and booming cacophony that she tries desperately to shut away, to blink out, to pull back from.

But the deafening noise only grows. The blinding brightness simply intensifies.

She’s never felt anything like this before. It’s as though her powers are on overdrive. The ability to _sense_ energy is so great that she is utterly overwhelmed. She feels power – raw and unmanageable – thrum through her. Occasionally, she catches glimpses of bright blue sparks… and the fuzzy outlines of wide eyes buried in awe-filled faces. Sometimes, she even thinks she sees the red – the bright, fiery burn of the Phoenix, long latent – come to life behind her eyes.

But she’s so… lost. So confused. So out of sorts. She’s never able to actually _do_ anything with the power. She’s not even able to comprehend what she _could_ do with it.

The energy simply fills her up. And then, somehow, it filters away.

It’s the needles. That’s where the energy goes. It takes her several sessions to figure it out, to notice. She’s hot and anxious and on the verge of exploding. And then they draw it all out of her, leaving her a pile of spent and useless bones and flesh.

Her heart races, her head pulsates, and her body aches and cramps.  

Everything is a blur. She thinks Lobe is there – at some point. He’s injecting her with something and whispering in her ear, telling her that things could be easier, better… more comfortable if she’d just talk to them. But she will not speak. She will not say a word. She’s not even sure she knows what _words_ are anymore.

But… “Jamie!”

She thinks… _yes_. Through the thick veil of unreality, of the burn of memories and the visceral terror of others and the splitting apart of her own nerve endings, she hears a voice – dull and raspy and harsh from disuse – carry off into the void.

“Jamie?” A call, a plea. “Jamie!” A cry from somewhere so deep inside her it might as well be issued out along with the bile creeping up her throat.

But what does that even mean? _Jamie._ What is that word that tumbles around inside her head, spews forth from her lips in a desperate cry when they tug the straps tight and stab into her veins, dig into her bones, poke-poke-poke up the length of her spine?

“Jamie.” An empty sound falling on deaf ears.

It licks at her conscious mind, works to brings her back around. And for a fleeting moment – some time after they dump her back in the room, unceremoniously deposit her onto the still bare bed – she _knows_. She sees his face loom in front of her own. Feels the cool press of his metal thumb between her eyes. Hears him murmur softly into her ear, _baby… sweetheart… doll._

“Jamie…” she knowingly utters, more a stilted breath than a word.

But then her vision clouds as a thick gray air rolls in through the vent, just as it does after every session. Or is it _before_ every session? Is there even a _before_ and _after_ anymore? The dense, wet fog clogs the room with darkness and fills her up with tempestuous dismay.

Her eyes blink shut and his face melts away. A bitter chill takes hold, leaving no room for his gentle touch. It rapidly dissipates, leaving behind just the ghost of a soothing press along her forehead. She pulls in a shuddering breath and strains her ears to hear. But his words fade to nothing.

When her eyes open next, she’s back in the other room. Once again, her body burns, fire spitting from her fingertips, head splitting in two as strange men in scrubs strap her down. They tell her to relax, to hush, to _be quiet now_. And it’s only then, through the haze of agony and dread, that she hears her voice carrying over all the rest, crying out an unfamiliar word that somehow causes both comfort and anguish to pool in her gut.

“Jamie.”


	45. The Smell of Apple Pie

It’s Christmas. And they still haven’t found her.

All of the random pieces of intel – whether gathered from bugged conversations in Secretary Ross’ office, collected in dark alleys from old spy contacts, or painstakingly pulled from long-closed files and newly decrypted records – have led to nothing.

No one has actually given up, of course. The investigation goes on, each Avenger doing their damnedest to trudge through the day to day and still make the time to keep digging. But Bucky can tell that their hearts just aren’t into it anymore, not like they used to be. Everyday that he wakes up without his wife by his side marks a fresh, new day of torture for him. But to much of the rest of the team, it’s just another day.

In fairness – he _knows_ – the Avengers Initiative doesn’t get to shut down and refuse to provide aide to the rest of the world just because one measly doctor goes missing. There are still training sessions to be held, guided drills to complete, and general instruction to provide. And there are missions. Lately, it seems, there have been far too many missions.

In Madrid, Mexico City, and Galveston of all places, they’ve had to help quell riots brought on by violent anti-mutant rallies. Even just last week, there was an incident outside of Atlanta when an angry, embittered inhuman set fire to the townhall and courthouse, using powers so intense that the buildings became entirely engulfed in flames within mere seconds. Eight people died, several others were injured, and inside of 24 hours, the National Guard was pulling registered mutants and inhumans from their homes and holding them in area jails to stave off further violence.

In this instance – as in so many others – all Steve could do was send in a small team to _watch_. And _wait_. And do their best _not_ to intervene.

To make matters back at home even worse, Tony had recently taken over most of the day-to-day work on tracking Tessa down. This left a rather reluctant Steve better able to oversee things at the compound and manage all of the small peacekeeping missions the Avengers had been suddenly tasked with taking on.

Bucky knows that Stark loves his girl. He knows that he’ll put his all into finding her. And, after disappearing for a couple of weeks to Wakanda and returning with some neat new toys – including a sleek and shiny suit made entirely of nanoparticles – Tony has definitely seemed more… together. More collected. More capable of putting his genius to work. But none of that makes it any easier for Bucky to actually be in the same room with the man.

That being said, he _can_ acknowledge that Tony’s renewed vigor has been… refreshing. Not only has he taken a deep dive into old intel, but he also put together a couple of new investigative ops, both of which – admittedly – seemed to hold some promise. They now have eyes on what looks to be a small military training base hidden away in the depths of the Yukon. And they’ve managed to install Reynolds and Robson in two separate anti-enhanced vigilante groups that they have reason to believe have potential ties to the government. So things are looking up… even if only slightly.

But right now – lingering in the mostly abandoned compound… the support team and adjacent personnel having been given leave for the holidays – Bucky can’t help but feel stuck in the same limbo he’s been writhing in for months.  

Because the fact is, it’s now Christmas. And she’s still gone.  

He makes good on his promise from four years ago – had it really been four whole years since their first Christmas together? – or _mostly_ makes good on it. He can’t quite bring himself to prepare an entire holiday meal, despite swearing to her that he always would. But he does make a from-scratch apple pie.

Maybe he thinks she’ll somehow know. Maybe – he hopes – the smell of it baking will bring her home. Maybe he just feels antsy as hell and is willing to do almost anything to keep himself busy.

But once it’s all said and done, he’s merely left with a pie he has no desire to eat, a filthy kitchen he can’t quite bring himself to clean, and an eerily quiet and empty apartment that mocks him with the sweet smells of cinnamon and nutmeg.

So he takes the pie down to the common room – the plate still hot, caramelized filling still bubbling slightly around the edges – and plops it unceremoniously onto the counter, leaving it there for whomever remains at the compound to find and eat. Maybe _someone_ can get some enjoyment from his misguided labors. He lets out a tight breath and spins on his heel to head back upstairs. But before he makes it to the door he hears a soft, “Hey,” filter out of the sitting area.

There, in the dark, sipping out of a giant, steaming mug, sits an eerily quiet Natasha. She’s curled into a tight ball on the couch, feet pulled up beneath her, blanket draped about her shoulders. There’s an almost serene look on her face, despite the thick air of angst clogging the large, silent room.

She holds the mug out to him. “Hot cocoa and bourbon?” she offers with a small, quirked smile.

He shakes his head _no_ , but steps over towards her anyway, dropping heavily into one of the overstuffed chairs to her left. “I made a pie,” he says plainly, flipping his thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the dessert on the counter.

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “Smells good.”

He nods simply, turning his gaze towards the wall of windows. The grounds outside are dark. Dead. The trees have lost their leaves. The deep freeze has caused the grass to brown. Despite it being December, they’ve yet to have more than a dusting of snow. Just rain on the warmer days. Ice sheeting the windows in the cold. It’s shaping up to be a truly ugly winter.

“I hoped it would snow,” Nat mutters almost to herself. She lets out a small laugh. “I hate the snow. Reminds me of _home_.” He glances over at her and sees that telltale crooked Romanov grin. “But Tessa loves it,” she says slowly, the smile falling from her face as she stares longingly out the windows. “She always says it isn’t Christmas without snow.” Her shoulders pull into a tight, pained shrug and she turns to look at him. “Guess I thought… maybe it’d be a sign. If it snowed… maybe it’d mean… something.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a sudden, sharp breath.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just…”

He shrugs, a plaintive expression breaking over his stony face as he gazes at her, lips curling into a despondent sort of smile. “I can’t…”

She nods, somehow understanding exactly what it is he’s trying to say. “I know.”

He shakes his head again and swallows thickly. “It’s just… it’s Christmas. And she’s… not here.”

“I know,” she repeats softly.

A short, despairing chuckle burbles suddenly out of him. “I made a damn pie,” he laughs out. “I didn’t even… I haven’t been to the shooting range in weeks. Or the gym. I… I…” He chokes on another bitter chortle, turning towards the windows so that his eyes can roam over the barren terrain outside. He shakes his head slowly before dropping his gaze to his hands, to the titanium band being absently spun on his ring finger. “But I made a damn pie.”

Natasha straightens just a bit as she watches him, this large, stoic, dangerous man before her who somehow looks so like a frightened, lost little boy right now. “Tessa used to say that you were the strongest person she’d ever known,” she breathes out, not even aware of the thought passing through her until the words echo in her own ears. She leans forward and sets down her mug on the coffee table, rests her elbows on her knees as she inclines toward him. “Coming back after everything you’ve been through… James,” she says, her utterance of the name so rarely heard anymore causing his eyes to jerk quickly up to meet hers. “You need to be strong now.”

His intense gaze bores into her, causing a dull throb to radiate through her core. Even in the dark, she can see the overwhelming grief on his face. The desperation in his eyes. He releases a long, shuddering breath before stating simply, “I don’t know who I am without her,” and dropping his head to his heads. He lets out an awful sound, a mix between a grunt and a sob. And she feels her chest constrict.

“That’s not fair,” she returns. “You didn’t know who you were before she came along either. You can’t put all of that on her.”

He slowly lifts his head, his light eyes swimming in unshed tears as he stares at her, dumfounded.

“If she can feel you…” she starts, swallowing hard. “She shouldn’t have to feel _that_.” She looks at him sternly, despite the tears beginning to build in her own eyes. “Wherever she is, whatever she’s going through… I want her to be focused on _one thing_.” She raises her eyebrows high and commanding, tears slipping from beneath her lids as she does so. “I want her to be focused on coming home.”

His mouth gapes open for a long moment as he works to gather his words. “I want that too,” he utters finally, decisively, despite the broken tone.

Natasha nods before angrily swiping at the felled tears on her cheeks. “Then man the fuck up,” she tells him, her voice nearly breaking with the command. “This is it. This is the last time we cry and…” She chokes on a small, sardonic laugh, swallows down hard to gather herself before going on. “We are going to find her. We are going to bring her home. If she can feel us, even the tiniest bit, that’s what I want her to feel. Not sadness or guilt or fear… or anything else.” She shakes her head, and steels her posture, levels him with a resolute stare. “I don’t care how long it’s been or how long it’s going to be. We are going to find her,” she repeats with authority. “We are going to bring her home.” Her eyes slowly slip back over – just beyond where he sits – to gaze out the windows. “And maybe then, it’ll finally snow.”

000

It feels late, the sun setting so early nowadays. But it’s barely eight o’clock. Bucky thinks about going over to Steve’s, but, truth be told, he really doesn’t want to see his sad, broken face any more than he wants to see his sad, broken home right now. So with both of those apartments out of the running, he chooses to leave the building altogether and simply go for a walk along the partially frozen grounds.

He’s not crying anymore. Natasha’s right – _never say those words out loud_ , he tells himself. He needs to stay strong. He needs to focus on what he can control. The investigation… research, surveillance, ops. It’s a waste of time and energy to shuffle around feeling sad and guilty and helpless. He needs to _work_ , not worry. How many times has Tessa told him not to worry so much? That beautiful wife of his…

 _Wife_.

They had still been newlyweds when she was taken from him, pulled right out of his tender grasp. Only… no, he hadn’t been grasping her at all, had he? She’d been at the opposite end of the country. Might as well have been the opposite side of the world. And he’d let her go. And now she’s gone.

“It isn’t fair,” he mumbles aloud, looking down at his slowly flexing metal fist. A bionic arm. Veins full of super soldier serum. Training and experience at the hands of some of the most ruthlessly adept soldiers, spies… assassins. And still he could do nothing. Still, he finds himself even now lurking in the dark cold, doing _nothing_.

“What’s not fair?” he hears, a small voice nearly carried away by the wind.

He spins on a heel – eyes wide, shoulders tensed, jaw set – and sees Sarah Atkinson walking up the path. She’s quiet – sure. Light and well trained. But there’s no way she should’ve been able to sneak up on him like that. “Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head and brushing past her on his way back to the compound.

She reaches out a small gloved hand and tenderly grips his arm, her fingers squeezing his bicep just enough to send a shock of peculiar reassurance through him. It’s a kind, gentle touch. And that’s the last thing he deserves right now. So he tears his arm from her hold.

“Wait,” she says softly, pulling his gaze to her. He looks up and sees the genuine care and concern on her face, her normally soft features pinched with worry. “Just… wait.”

He lets out a long sigh, shaking his head again. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone weary. “It’s Christmas.”

A light, airy laugh bubbles out of her, the fog of her hot breath in the winter air chasing the oddly joyful sound. He isn’t used to sounds like that. Not anymore. But he’d lying if he said it didn’t give him a bit of a thrill. “I have four brothers and each of them has four kids of their own. Trust me, my family’s too busy right now to be missing me.” Her gaze hardens just the slightest bit as she shrugs. “I figured I might be needed more here.”

His eyes shoot off towards nothing, lips pressing together into a thin, straight line. “Nothing’s happening here,” he breathes out, bitterness to the clipped words. “Nothing you can do.”

She takes a step closer to him, close enough that he can feel her body heat bleed into the air between them, and he unconsciously moves closer as well, that heat pulling him in. “Well… _you_ kind of look like you might need a friend.”

He glances back at her, only a bit surprised to see that she’s mere inches from him. “No,” he mumbles absently. “I don’t need a friend.”

“Are you sure?” She looks up at him with an utterly expectant expression, one so full of hope that it causes a deep ache to settle in his chest. “If you want to… talk…”

He continues to stare down at her. She’s so tiny. Such a small – yet mighty – person. He remembers when he first saw her spar during those initial training sessions. He remembers the surprise – and odd swell of pride – he felt when she brought down two men more than twice her size. If he hadn’t seen it then – and several times since – he’d never believe it now… that this dainty-looking woman before him, complete with bright red peacoat and delicate crocheted hat, would be able to give him a run for his money.

“Sarge,” she intones, voice rising to pull him from his distracted thoughts. “I mean it. I’m here. For whatever you need.”

He gives a short nod by way of _thanks_ and prepares to turn and leave. But the warmth still radiating off of her compels him to stay. And before he realizes what’s happened, his lips part to say, “I’m sorry.”

Her brows twist together in confusion. “What? What are you sorry for?”

But he’s already shaking his head, already pinching his eyes firmly shut and whipping his head back and forth as if to say, _no, no, no_ a thousand times over. “Not… sorry,” he mutters, feeling a collection of new tears burning at the back of his throat. “No. I… I’m sorry…”

Concern fills her gaze as she follows the movement of his head, the awkward, pained tug and pull of his face. “Hey,” she soothes, laying a hand on his forearm. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Slowly… slowly, his eyes open, honing in on her red gloved hand wrapped around his arm. He pulls in a deep, steadying breath, one that still manages to release from his lungs in a pained shudder. “I’m sorry… to Tessa. To _everyone_. I should’ve… I’m just… sorry.”

She nods steadily, her eyes never leaving his broken face. “You blame yourself,” she utters, no question to her voice.

He almost chokes on the mournful laugh that bursts out of him. “Of course I do.”

“We don’t blame you,” she says with such sweet sincerity. “Do you think that Dr. Sullivan would’ve blamed you?”

He shakes his head, the word, “No,” spilling quickly and certainly from his tongue. “No, she wouldn’t. But… I was supposed to protect her. Keep her safe.”

Atkinson hums softly, a sound so subtle, he’s not entirely sure it isn’t just the sound of wind bristling through the naked trees. “You know,” she starts after a long, thoughtful pause. “There’s a certain kind of peace that comes from letting go. I can’t say you won’t still hurt, but…”

His brows pull tightly together as he glares down at her. “Let go?”

“Of the guilt,” she explains. Then, taking just the smallest of steps closer to him. “And maybe… of _her_.”

The look he gives her is one of pure shock. He’s too taken aback to even be angry at her suggestion. In the entirety of the past four months, no one has ever – not once – even _insinuated_ that he should let go, give up, move on. “You think I should… let go? Of Tessa?” She nods slowly, sadly. And he begins to feel a deep-seated hostility take hold. “You think I should _let go_ of my _wife_?”

“I know it’s hard – ”

“You don’t know a damn thing,” he bites out.

Her expression sets, the sadness evaporating away and leaving just a somber sort of sobriety in its wake. “You yourself said that she would _never_ give them what they wanted. How long do you think they’d keep her around, Sarge? It’s been four months. How long do you think they’d keep her if she refused to give them what they needed?”

His eyes grow wide, an awful fear creeping up, wrapping itself around the bitter anger.

“I know you don’t want to believe it. And I don’t want to have to be the one to _say_ it. But there are only a few potential outcomes at this point, and none of them are good. Either she caved and gave them what they wanted, in which case, they’d have no further need of her. Or she continued to refuse and they tortured her until there was nothing left to torture.”

He feels a sudden swell of bile hit the back of his of his throat and he swallows down hard as he harshly pivots away.

“ _Or_ ,” she goes on, stepping around to get in front of him again, “They couldn’t get anything out of her, so they turned her into a subject. Either way, she’s most likely dead.”

He stops in his tracks, hard glare piercing into her as he asks, “What do you mean, _subject_?”

She shrugs, the casualness of the gesture forced. “Just… they could kill her… or they could _turn_ her.” His glare deepens, eyes narrowing in a sort of threatening inquiry. She releases an irritated huff. “They could experiment on her and turn her into an enhanced… freak.”

“An enhanced _freak_?” His voice begins to rise in both pitch and volume, the silence of the cold, winter night quickly shattering between them. “Like me? Or Steve? Or Wanda?” His lips pinch tightly together, keeping him from divulging that most closely held secret. _Like Tessa?_

“No,” she argues, shaking her head emphatically. “Not like… look, the fact is, _if_ they experiment on her in the same way they did on the others, freak or not, she’s as good as dead. And I know that sounds harsh. I know you don’t want to hear it. But I think you _need_ to hear it.”

He levels a single, severe, pointed finger at her, bending down low so that they’re face to face… eye to eye. “You don’t know a fucking thing about what I need,” he snarls out. “And you don’t know a fucking thing about my wife either. The fact that you think she’s dead just proves that.”

To her credit, Atkinson doesn’t shrink before him. Far from it, in fact. She stretches herself to her full height, settles her hands on her hips, and juts her chin defiantly forward. “Your wife is gone, Sergeant Barnes. And some day, you’re going to have to accept that.” She rocks slowly back onto her heels then, an almost sheepish look rolling over her moonlit features when she says, voice once again soft and tender, “When you’re ready to do that, I hope you come find me.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” snakes from his lips just as his cell begins to ring. Atkinson glares down at the phone that he quickly digs out of his pocket before spinning around in a huff and heading back to the compound. Without so much as glancing at the caller ID – his blazing eyes still trained in a menacing stare on the woman’s slowly retreating form – Bucky answers the call. “What?”

“What?” is repeated back to him in equal parts snark and annoyance, and he has to quell the fury set off in his gut at just hearing Tony Stark’s voice. There’s a quick, fleeting moment of silence, barely enough time for Bucky to even finish pulling in a bitingly cold – hopefully calming – breath, before another question resounds through the phone. “Where are you?”

His muscles tense, the urgency in Tony’s voice setting him suddenly on edge. “I’m just… outside,” he mutters. “Why? What’s going on?”

He hears the man on the other end blow out a long, slow breath before saying simply, “Merry Christmas, Tin Man. We got something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... the absolute angst of it all! Where is Tessa? Will this newest lead pan out? Can Bucky find his wife and bring her home before the new year? And even if they _do _manage to find her... well, what exactly is it that they'll find? Duh-duh-dunn!__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _As always, thanks for reading!_  
>  _


	46. Outpost 856

“You know,” Sam mutters through the comms as he comes to rest on a snow-smattered rooftop, wings easily retracting into his suit without a sound. “For an organization that went under in the nineties, Department H seems to have an awful lot of _personnel_.”

“Personnel?” Clint laughs as he slinks off into the dense woods surrounding the area, eyes pinging to the treetops in search of a good spot. “I’d call them armed guards myself.”

Steve watches Barton retreat a few more strides before easily scurrying up a tree and settling in, pulling out some hi-tech binoculars and scanning the area. The Captain sidesteps along the edge of the forest, careful to remain hidden while still gaining a clear view of the dozen or so uniformed soldiers acting as security just inside the gates of the small complex. He glances up at the man perched on the corner of the northernmost building, a slight shimmer bouncing off of the metal pack where the wings store inside his suit. “I’ve got eleven on the ground at the main entrance. Sam, what do you have around back?”

“Five.”

“Barton?” Steve inquires as he looks up to the man who’s now at least a hundred yards from his side.

“Westside looks clear,” he replies, tone slow and cautious. “No guards around Building B. But I also don’t see any way in.”

“Building C’s the same,” Natasha says, barely a whisper as she slinks undetected along the very edge of the property.

For a probable military installment, security around this small outpost is… not great. Sure there are soldiers meandering the grounds, all armed, all clearly on duty. But the Widow was able to easily cut into the eighteen foot fence along the border and slip through onto the property without anyone being the wiser. Bucky had followed hot on her heels, somehow making it through the tight break in the fence without widening it an inch, causing the redhead to smirk and snipe about him being _as bendy as a rat_.

The two rush forward towards Building C – the easternmost of the four equally sized, utterly nondescript brick buildings on the property – and stop when they reach the rear wall, squatting low and peering out around the corner to watch as a solitary guard casually saunters by. “No windows, no doors,” Bucky mutters into the comms once the oblivious soldier passes. “They must be connected underground.”

Steve pulls in a long, deep breath, his eyes painfully trained on the group of guards ahead of him. “Okay,” he sighs out. “Romanov, I want you to head my way, to the main entrance. You and Bucky flank the guards outside Building A from either side. I’ll approach from the front. Barton, can you cover me from there?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” he smarts from his perch. “I got you.”

Steve nods and tosses a glance back towards the Falcon. “Sam, hold steady. Chances are, your guards will charge the front when we move in. Follow them and take them out along the way. Call if you need help.”

“Copy that.”

The comms are silent for a long moment before Natasha’s breathy whisper shoots out over them. “We’re in position.”

And then all hell breaks loose.

000

It had been Tony’s idea to storm the base.

The small outpost buried deep in the Yukon had been listed as abandoned by Canada’s Department of National Defense. And when Rhodey did a flyover a few months back – this being one of several locations they looked into after finding it listed in Department H’s defunct database – it certainly _seemed_ to be deserted. The buildings were all rundown, the grounds overgrown, and the single small road in and out was in such disrepair that it would be nearly impossible for anyone to get through.

They had checked the complex off their list, moved onto different leads, and forgotten it completely. Then, just a over a week ago, Vision hacked into the Department of Public Safety, which contained Canada’s newly created Subdivision of Enhanced-Human Affairs. And after just a few hours of scanning their data, he stumbled upon evidence of funds that had moved from the Department of Public Safety to the _military_.

“More than 90 percent of the funds were allocated for improvements to areas deemed fit for transformation into military training grounds,” he had told Tony in an oddly excited manner. “The first location selected for improvements was Department H’s Outpost 856 in Yukon.”

They immediately began surveilling the area and were surprised to find that many of the improvements had already been made. The road was recently cleared and patched. The grounds were – if not meticulous – at least neatly kept. A new fortified fence had been erected along the border of the property. And then, on Christmas Eve, they received satellite images that showed the compound was not only functional, but was actually _functioning_.

At least ten soldiers could be seen guarding the perimeter of the outpost. And though they were unable to capture images of anyone actually going in or out of the buildings, the mere fact that armed guards were in place told them all that there must be _something_ in the complex worth defending.

Vision – along with Wanda, who had barely left the android’s side over the past few weeks – continued to closely monitor the area for the next 24 hours. At which point they noticed a rather large convoy of all-terrain military vehicles making their way to the property.

 

Tony immediately called in the core Avengers, everyone filing into the conference room just before midnight on Christmas – including Clint, who had just kissed his kids goodnight before getting the call, and Sam, who had to make a thousand and one excuses before his mom would let him out the door.

“They brought something into that outpost. We know it. We just don’t know _what_ ,” Wanda had told the team as her hand snaked over to Vision’s deep red fingers, squeezing them for support.

“And the only way to find out,” Tony said with authority, “is to go in there and see it for ourselves.”

After much deliberation – and a little bit of shouting – it was finally decided that Steve would lead the charge, leaving Tony to manage operations back at the compound. Without the support teams in place – no one was set to return until after the new year – someone had to stay back to act as mission control. And to plan a rescue op should things get hairy.

Bruce, always eager to avoid anything that might cause a Code Green, immediately volunteered to remain at the compound as well. And because there was still some intel that Vision and Wanda had yet to entirely decipher, they agreed to stay back too.

No one was sure what they’d find out there, in that tiny outpost in the middle of nowhere. It could be yet another dead end. Or it could be the turning point in their investigation. Tessa could be there right now, perhaps brought in under the cover of darkness on that mysterious convoy. Or the cargo brought in could’ve been newly enhanced soldiers reporting for training. Or… it could be nothing at all.

000

They move as quickly and stealthily as they can, dispatching the guards in a matter of minutes, keeping constant watch for additional troops to stream out of Building A. But no one else comes. And as far as they can see, none of the guards activate any sort of communication devices to warn others of the attack.

Natasha does another quick sweep of the area, checking for cameras but finding nothing. “Maybe they’re still in the process of getting things set up,” Steve mutters as he steps over a felled body. “They obviously didn’t think anyone would really come out here, or they would’ve had decently trained guards on duty.”

The redhead raises a doubting eyebrow. “Or they outfitted the place with state-of-the-art tech that we can’t readily ID, and in there,” she points at the darkened doorway that Bucky’s making a beeline for, “are where the _decently trained_ guys are watching us, prepping for us to come straight to them.”

Sam stops short, sidestepping one of the five still-alive guards – all of whom are currently twitching and drooling from amped-up widow’s bites – and turns a wide-eyed glare on Natasha. “Why you gotta be such a killjoy, Romanov? Damn.”

Steve pulls in a deep breath as he approaches the door to Building A and drops a hand to Bucky’s shoulder before he gets the chance to enter. “Wait,” he issues out, voice deep and commanding. He turns to Sam and tells him to, “Keep a lookout,” just as Natasha comes up behind him, cautiously stepping over the dropped guards. She easily glides past both Steve and Bucky and into the compound, her obvious inability to follow orders pulling an irritated eyeroll from the Captain.

“Yeah, sure. Cool,” Sam calls after them as the three enter the building. “I’ll just hang out here… with these guys.”

Clint races over to pick up the rear of the small expedition, patting the Falcon on the shoulder as he goes. “We’re all counting on you,” he snarks, turning quickly to give him a teasing wink before disappearing into the shadows.

Inside, they find the place cold and dark. There are small lights that line either side of the concrete floor, marking the path down a narrow, empty corridor. But there’s nothing else. No doors nor windows, nor anything adorning the thick brick walls. And there are no sounds, save the smallest of slightly echoing clip-clops as they each take cautious steps down the hall. “It’s like a tomb,” Clint murmurs, his mere whisper cutting sharply through the silence.

“There’s gotta be more to this building than just a hallway,” Bucky emits in a low, hushed tone. He slowly runs his right hand along the cold brick wall. “They’re hiding something.”

“Yeah,” Natasha snipes from ahead, a small, indignant snort resounding back to him. “You didn’t figure that out already?”

He rolls his eyes and resists the temptation to grab her by the hair and jerk her to the back of the line, knowing full well that if he did, it would only end badly for him.

It isn’t long before they reach a fork in the proverbial road. Down at the bottom of a deeply set, stone staircase, three sets of stairs branch off from the center, leading down to three separate hallways. “Alright,” Steve breathes out as he pushes to the front. He taps the comm unit in his ear. “Everyone online?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

Each of them nods as Sam’s, “Copy that,” resounds in their ears.

Steve nods and turns to make eye contact with Nat and Clint. Without a word, he points them to the right, the passageway that undoubtably leads to Building D. He makes a gesture straight ahead, towards the hall that surely leads to C, and shakes his head, holding up a single, stilling hand. _We wait_ , the gesture conveys. Then he drops his hand to Bucky’s shoulder and directs him to the left, stepping that way himself, toward Building B. The orders are clear. Everyone nods their assent, and the four split apart to quietly stalk along the cold, stone corridors.

It’s no more than a few minutes – five at most – before Steve and Bucky’s halting, cautious steps finally bring them to a new set of stairs, these leading up. “Entering Building B,” Steve breathes out softly, making sure the team’s progress is relayed.

“Entering Building D,” Clint answers just a moment later.

They continue on, moving steadily down a new hallway, one that looks exactly like the first, with the same rough brick walls and little white lights embedded into the floor, casting shadows around their boots. Up ahead, they see a door, a small sliver of light outlining it as though it’s cracked open. And there’s something else too, something that makes them both immediately cringe.

“You smell that?” Steve whispers to Bucky, stilling in his tracks and glancing back at the man no more than a step behind him.

Bucky nods, lips pressed into a tight, firm line. But he says nothing.

“Formaldehyde,” the blond mutters absently before turning and tiptoeing up to the door ahead. Sure enough, it is slightly ajar, the smallest slit of light coming from the crack serving as proof that someone must be home. Steve strains his ears, forcing his _super_ hearing to seek out any sound. He gets nothing.

They reach the door and Bucky automatically positions himself across the narrow hallway from Steve, high-powered rifle pointed towards the room, at the ready. He nods at the Captain and waits for the man’s boot to slowly push the door open. They both tense in anticipation, adrenaline causing the blood to pulsate through their ears so loudly as to nearly deafen them to all other sounds.

But once the door is swung fully open, they realize that there _are_ no other sounds. And there are no other people. They’re simply met with a rather small, sterile-seeming, bright-white tiled space. Two stainless steel tables sit at either corner of the room, unidentifiable machines perched atop them. Ahead of them lay a large array of somewhat familiar looking instruments, each meticulously positioned along a countertop lining the wall.

Bucky turns and sees that the wall behind them is covered in shelves, more instruments, cannisters, medical… equipment sits atop them. A deep shudder rolls through him, starting at his core and ending at his fingertips, causing the gun in his grasp to shake. “It’s a morgue,” he utters, voice thick.

Steve spares him a quick glance before taking note of the metal door to their right. He spins toward it and thrusts his chin forward, indicating for Bucky to turn. They both step cautiously towards the door, again positioning themselves on either side – one at the ready to pull open the large latch, the other prepared to shoot anyone that might come through once it’s swung open.

But once again, no one launches at them from the other side. Once again, they are met with only silence. Stillness. Bitter-cold air rolls out of the space along with an acrid smell. It’s a storage freezer, nearly twice the size of the adjoining room. Bucky drops his rifle, points it toward the smooth stone floor, mouth suddenly hanging agape. And Steve drops his posture, shoulders drooping, as he too takes in the scene before them.

There are no fewer than twenty stainless steel gurneys shoved into the space, with barely enough room for a person to slide down between them. Each one is covered with a thin white sheet. And each sheet shows the telltale topography of a human form laid out beneath it.

The men share a quick look, a brief glimmer of fear, a note of horror playing in their common gaze. Then they step inside the room and begin to… look.

000

Clint and Natasha clear Building D inside of ten minutes.

Like Steve and Bucky, they take painstakingly soft steps down the long stone hallway – the journey seeming to take forever – before finally being met with the staircase leading up into the building. Once they ascend and hit the main corridor, they’re bathed in utter darkness. No more tracks of lights on the stone floor to lead their way. No other lights along the ceiling or walls. Just total darkness.

Nat steps out ahead and pops on a small flashlight, bounces it off the walls to either side. She pulls in a sharp breath at the sight, her free hand quickly shooting out to glide along the illuminated surface. Glass. Or… plexiglass, perhaps. That’s all that lines these walls. No stone or brick or wood. The entire length of the hallway, on both sides, there’s nothing but glass. She leans closer to peer through the glare and sees that the walls are actually windows, each giant pane marking a different room. Each room looking identical in it’s stark white crispness, it’s utter sparseness. They look like small, sterile hospital rooms. Or… no. They look like small, sterile _cells_.

“What the hell?” Clint mutters, bouncing his own flashlight off of the windows as they slowly continue down the hall. “There must be… what? Forty? Fifty rooms?”

Natasha nods in agreement, peering into each cell in turn, checking to make sure they’re all empty. They are. Each and every one. They reach the end of the hall and she feels a thick knot form in her gut. “Nothing,” she breathes out. “No one.”

Clint catches a glimpse of her crestfallen face, the nearly broken expression reflecting off of the window of the final room. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching out and grasping her fingertips. “This isn’t where we’d want to find her.”

She turns to look at him, her features shifting and tugging into a tight, stoic frown. “It’s been too long,” she tells him, voice low and decisive. “We’re not going to find her anywhere we _want_ to find her.”

They take just another moment, lingering at the end of the empty hall – the empty building – before turning and making their way back to the center of the compound. “Building D is clear,” Clint announces into the comms.

Only Sam replies, still sounding calm – perhaps even bored – outside. “Copy that.”

They arrive back at the fork in the road without receiving any confirmation from the other team. Clint looks to Natasha and she simply shrugs. “They would’ve let us know if they needed us,” she mutters before turning and taking the lead once more, heading down the only remaining hall. She presses her finger delicately to the device in her ear and announces, “We’re heading to Building C.”

000

They’ve pulled the sheets back on just two bodies – both unrecognizable – by the time they hear the all clear from Clint – broken and staticky – through the comms. The thick walls of the freezer are likely giving some interference, and Steve starts to take a step back, preparing to pop back out into the main room to respond. But he’s halted by the harsh sound of Bucky’s sharp inhale.

He looks up to find his friend several paces ahead of him, about halfway down the first row of gurneys, holding a thin sheet precariously between the thumb and forefinger of a wildly trembling hand. “What?” he asks hurriedly, the word tumbling out of him in a single, petrified breath. His feet are cemented to the floor. His heart beats manically in his chest. His eyes grow wide as a single thought fills every corner of his mind. _No._

Bucky looks up at him with dark, hooded eyes as he flings back the sheet to reveal a small, pale body. Steve fights the urge to remain focused on his friend and _not_ look down at the frozen, lifeless being in his periphery. But his eyes jerk without his consent, coming to land first on the long, dark hair spilling out over the stainless steel. He steps cautiously forward, muscles straining to propel him along. His breath catches as he slowly shifts his gaze and peers beyond the hair, takes in her face.

It’s not her. It’s not Tessa. But there’s no sense of relief in his realization. No release of breath nor slowing of his pulse occurs. Rather a deep gnawing anxiety begins to pool in his gut as his eyes rove the form before him.

At first, he thinks the body is that of a child, so small and frail. But as he steps up to the gurney, he sees that the still features are those of an adult woman. He glances up at Bucky and locks onto a newly fuming gaze. “You know her?”

Bucky gives a single nod, his lips pressed so tightly together that they’re devoid of any color. They part just enough for a small cloud of hot breath to pass between them and into the icy air. “Kitty Pryde,” he says, enunciating each syllable.

Steve cocks his head, brows pulling together as he tries to place the name, again looking down at the young woman with gray lips and too-pale skin. “I don’t…” he mutters before repeating, “You know her?”

“She taught at the school,” he says, gaze softening as it drifts back to her frozen face. “History.”

“Xavier’s school?” He nods. “Was she… was she one of the X-Men?”

He nods again, and brings his right hand up to hover near her icy cheek. His forehead furrows deeply as he contemplates touching her, sweeping a dark swath of hair back behind her ear. Pressing his warm palm into her frigid flesh. “They grew up together,” he utters plainly as he swiftly tears his hand away and uses it to thrust the sheet back over her. He looks up at Steve, who now stands nervously in front of him, Kitty’s body being the only thing between them. “She was supposed to be… safe. In hiding. With the others.”

Steve falters back, barely catching himself before bumping into another gurney. His eyes slowly sweep out across the room and he nods his head absently, the awful truth dawning. “They’re mutants. All of them. This is what they… brought here. In the convoy.”

Bucky pulls in a quick breath and hikes his shoulders back before turning to continue down the row of bodies. “Keep looking,” he directs, his voice hard and impassive. “Bobby’s probably here too,” he mutters under his breath as he flings back another sheet. Another unknown face, this one younger than the others, no more than a teenager.

“Bobby? Bobby Drake?”

Without slowing his search, he replies, “She’s his wife,” and shakes his head to dispel a sudden onslaught of grief… of guilt. “He wouldn’t let this happen… not if he was still alive.”

Steve throws a quick glance at his friend, notes his determined demeanor, expressionless face. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead he turns away from Bucky – away from the anguish that seems to permeate the air around him – and he uncovers the body to his right. It’s a boy. Not a man. Not even a teenager. But a boy, no more than ten or eleven. “ _Jesus_ ,” he mutters in a distressed tone. His gaze travels over the small body before his eyes pinch tightly shut – seemingly of their own accord – to block out the terrible sight. “How…” he starts, brows twisting together. “How did they die?” He looks up to see that Bucky has already moved onto the second row, steadily going through his checks with detached, military precision.

“Don’t know,” he mumbles in response before stilling beside another gurney. A long, pained breath escapes him, his eyes slowly falling shut after taking in the soft face of a young girl. This one he recognizes. This one he knows.

She’d been one of Kitty’s students, arguably one of the most engaged – at least with his story – when he’d gone to speak to her class. He remembers her smile, sees it now plucking at his periphery… bright and bold and so damn beautiful. She’d asked him about Azzano, and about how it felt to find out that his best friend was Captain America. She’d peppered him with questions about the Howling Commandos, seeming particularly intrigued by Gabe Jones. She’d very nearly bounced in her seat in anticipation, eagerly awaiting each and every response to fall from his lips. After class, she actually asked him to sign her history book.

Rosa. That was her name. _For Rosa. Don’t believe everything you read in here. – JBB_

He quickly drops the sheet. Then – after a fleeting moment of trepidation – he leans down a bit to tuck it delicately around her. Straightening back up, he fights off a fierce chill, and steps away to move onto the next table.

“They’re marked,” Steve announces from the center of the room. Bucky stops and looks over at him confusedly. “Look,” he says, grasping lightly to a young woman’s wrist. He twists it around and – even from a distance – Bucky can make out the small tattoo at the base of her hand, just along the interior of her wrist. “Every one starts with _M_. Followed by a number. This one’s 42.”

Bucky pulls back another sheet, sees another stranger, still and cold and dead before him. He slips his hand down the man’s arm and turns it so that he can see his wrist. _M-12_. “Shit,” slips from his lips, no other words coming to mind.

They don’t find Bobby in the freezer. They don’t find Storm or Logan or Xavier either. And most importantly, they don’t find Tessa. But there are nine _children_ total. Nine children, all marked with a different number. All wearing translucent skin, marred by bruises – ligature marks – along their wrists and ankles. All tiny and breathless and devoid of any semblance of life or light. Which is exactly how they both feel as they step back out of the freezer room, carefully closing and locking the door behind them.

“We’ll call in a support team to get them out of here,” Steve offers softly as he leans back against the cold tile. “Make IDs, notify family…”

“If they even have any,” Bucky mutters.

The two share a quick, sad, knowing look, the gaze broken only by the thick crackle of the comms in both their ears. “Cap, you there?” sounds Clint, his tone clearly agitated.

Steve presses a single finger to the earpiece. “Yeah, we’re here. Sorry. There may have been some interference while we –”

“We’ve got a situation,” he interrupts, words tumbling out in one swift breath. “Building C, last room on the right. Can’t miss it.”

Bucky’s out the door, sprinting down the hall before Steve even gets the chance to respond with, “On our way.”

000

Once they arrive – bursting into the room with a sudden clatter that startles nearly everyone in the otherwise quiet place – Steve and Bucky can see that Clint and Natasha pretty much have everything in hand. They’d expected a fight, or at least a _situation_ , as Barton had put it. But the room is eerily silent and calm, not withstanding the small whimpers coming from a pair of lab techs huddled in the corner.

The room that they _couldn’t miss_ looks to be a large, sprawling lab, far bigger than the morgue and freezer taking up the bulk of Building B. It reminds Bucky of Tessa’s lab at the compound – some of the equipment looking achingly familiar, not that he has a clue what any of it does. His eyes arc along the room, taking in the shining clarity of stainless steel countertops to his left, each peppered with hi-tech devices that he’s _sure_ Tessa would talk his ear off about… if only she were here to do so.

He looks up to see computers lining the far wall, each seemingly active and running through some sort of process – one which Natasha is hurriedly trying to investigate and decode as she bounces from one keyboard to the next. There’s a man in the corner to her right, hunched beneath the row of desks that she’s currently looming over. “We’re just running samples,” he ekes out. “Just… We’re just scientists.”

“I don’t think they’re going to buy that,” sounds from the far right in a voice that rings oddly familiar. Bucky swivels to find Clint and Steve flanking a smirking middle-aged man in a lab coat. His wrists are bound behind his back with zip-ties, and he certainly gives off no impression of being any sort of physical threat. But that doesn’t stop Barton from gripping his upper arm so tight that his knuckles have gone white.

“I told you to sit down,” Clint demands through gritted teeth as he shoves the man into a rolling office chair. He looks up at Bucky, connects with his wide eyes, and states simply, “Found something.”

It’s Dr. Aaron Scofield. The scientist who had been in the wind for almost two years now. The last time he saw that arrogant, pinched face was when he was lying atop a roof across from a restaurant in Manhattan, watching through his rifle sight as the doctor introduced Tessa to Lobe.

If only he’d known – back when he had him in his sights. If only he’d known then how much trouble and pain could’ve been staved off with one little bullet.

“Dr. Piece of Shit here has been telling us all kinds of things,” Clint goes on, an almost jovial quality to his voice that belies the vitriol burning in his eyes. “Isn’t that right, doc? Not that I believe much of what he’s said…”

Steve steps in front of the doctor and swiftly kicks him in the chest, his heel colliding hard with the man’s sternum, sending the wheeled chair careening into the wall behind. He takes off his helmet and strides over to the gasping man, kneels down in front of him. “There are twenty-two dead people in a freezer just over there,” he grits out, extending a pointed finger towards the other building. “Including children.”

“Wait, what?” Natasha asks, quickly stepping over. She stops alongside Bucky, who remains stoically cemented in place.

Scofield lets out a harsh laugh once his breath returns to his chest. “ _Mutants_ ,” he says by way of correction. “Not _people_.”

Steve’s face pulls even tighter, a burning fury written along the press of his lips, the tilt of his head. “What did you _do_?” he bites out, each word its own unique threat.

Scofield looks up at him with an earnest expression, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully from behind his broken glasses. “I robbed from the rich and gave to the poor,” he says, tone dripping with sincerity. “Nature can’t be expected to choose wisely when bestowing gifts. What does _nature_ know of a person’s worth? But I can choose.” He leans back in the chair and lets out a soft, self-satisfied chuckle. “ _I_ know,” he says, gaze boring into Steve. “ _I_ know what’s in your head. _I_ know if you’re… deserving or not.”

Clint drops a bitter snort. “You’re a real piece of work, you smug little shit.”

“Steve?” Natasha hums out, turning quickly to Bucky when the Captain doesn’t respond. “You found bodies?” she asks him, staring helplessly at the side of his face as he watches the scene before him with an awful intensity. He nods, never removing his eyes from Scofield’s face. “But not… not Tessa. Right?”

He glances her way then, eyes drawn to the sound of _Tessa_. But only briefly, his – and everyone else’s – attention being snapped back to the bound man when he asks, “You mean Dr. Sullivan?” A vicious sort of smile pulls over his face as he spits out, “She thought you’d come for her.”

“Where is she?” Bucky asks, his voice oddly calm and controlled. He steps closer to the man – one stride, then another – until he’s standing just above him, his broad shoulders bathing the doctor in shadow. Steve spins out of the way and rises, folds his arms across his chest and glares down at Scofield as they all await his reply.

But he doesn’t answer. He merely narrows his eyes at the intimidating creature before him, studying him closely, seeming to almost… look _through_ him. _Into_ him. His gaze ticks down to the metal arm, a slight whirring sounding from the fist as it clenches tight. Then he looks back up, locking onto the livid stare. The corner of his mouth pulls into a crooked, knowing grin. “You must be Jamie.”

Bucky starts at the name, visibly faltering back just a bit.

“I told you,” he says simply, arrogant lilt to his voice. “I know _everything_.” He leans forward in his seat, still holding tight to Bucky’s – now broken – gaze. Steve reaches down and lays a stilling hand across the doctor’s chest, shoving him back into the chair. But it doesn’t seem to intimidate him in the least as he raises a single brow and states, “She used to call out for you. In the beginning. Back when she still had a voice.” He emits a single, sharp chortle. “But you never came.”

Bucky lurches forward and Steve quickly thrusts his other hand up into his friend’s chest, straining every muscle to hold the two men apart as he looks down at Scofield and repeats Bucky’s question. “Where is she?”

The doctor shrugs casually. “Not here,” he says with a sigh. “We wouldn’t keep something that _potent_ at this facility.”

Steve seethes, his teeth clenched so tight a sharp pain cracks along his jaw. “Where. Is. She?”

Scofield’s eyes tick only briefly over to the Captain before returning to Bucky’s steely gray orbs. “Probably in the lab. Undergoing extraction.” He shakes his head a bit and gives a _tsk tsk tsk_ under his breath. “Irony is,” he goes on with raised brows, “if she’d only helped when we asked, the extraction process would be so much more refined now. So much more… comfortable.” He offers a pained smile that smacks of utter insincerity. “You don’t want to know how _uncomfortable_ the process truly is. Just ask the corpses next store. Or… ask your wife. Of course, she probably wouldn’t say anything more to you than she did to me.” His face transforms into a crazed sort of sneer as he throws his head back and suddenly shrieks, “Jamie! Jamie!” 

Steve feels his wrist snap as Bucky’s chest heaves forward. Stumbling, he falls back to the floor and blinks. That’s all it takes… one perfectly timed _blink_. And the harsh, mocking cries of the man in the chair beside him are swiftly swapped out for the sickening sluicing sound of flesh and gristle being ripped apart. He cradles his broken wrist to his chest and looks up to see his friend standing over Scofield, the man’s throat – still attached by tendrils of sinew – clenched in his hand, dripping blood down the metal plates of his arm.

“What did you do?!” Natasha cries out in a tone more desperate than any of them have ever heard come from her before. “What did you do?!”

But Bucky says nothing. He just continues to loom above the lifeless doctor, staring down at him with dark, cold eyes as he squeezes the offending organ between his fingers, milking it of every drop of blood. His jaw clenches and ticks to the side, emitting an audible crack to pair with the nauseating grinding pops and snaps of Scofield’s throat in his hand. Then, as his friends all stare on in shock, he releases the mass of tissue, allowing it drop with a resounding splat atop the tile floor before he turns and stalks silently away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You okay? Everybody still with me?


	47. Monster

“None of the guards knew anything,” Clint announces as he and Wanda sweep casually into the room.

There’s an obvious tension hanging in the air, Steve and Tony standing merely a foot apart in the common area’s kitchen, each staring heatedly at the other but saying nothing. The Captain blinks, giving a quick, barely noticeable snarl before breaking the standoff and turning to face Barton. “Are you sure?” he asks, reaching down and plucking his coffee mug from the counter.

Clint nods, nervous eyes pinging back and forth between the two men. “Wanda took a look inside their heads just to be safe.”

The young woman slips easily between Steve and Tony to grab an apple off the counter. She gives each of them a suspicious, warning look before stepping back and saying, “They were just guarding the buildings. I believe them when they say they didn’t know what was happening inside.”

“Great,” Tony mutters with a scoff. He turns to look at Clint, releases a long, low sigh, and tells him to “Cut ‘em loose.”

Steve pivots back and glares openly at him, dubious expression on his face. “What do you mean, _cut them loose_?”

He shrugs. “They’re Canadian citizens. Not to mention _military_. We can’t just hold them hostage.”

“They were there, Tony. They might not have known what _exactly_ was going on inside, but they were still there.”

“They were just following orders, Cap,” Clint tries, a solemn look on his face.

Steve’s eyes slam shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off yet another headache. “I know what it’s like being in the military,” he hums out after a moment. “I know what it’s like to believe that it’s your duty to follow orders. But at the end of the day, there are just some things that you _do not_ do.”

Tony emits a small, scornful chuckle before stating, voice deep and achingly slow, “Look, Canada’s a long-standing ally of ours. If we get on their bad side, guaranteed we’ll end up on the shit list of our great United States of America too. And if that happens… we are _done_. Through. Kaput. And then how the hell are we gonna find her?” His final words are biting, filled with a fiery sincerity that burns at the back of his throat – at his eyes – and causes him to spin angrily away.

“Tony’s right,” Clint declares with a thoughtful frown. “We can’t risk _not_ cooperating with them right now.” He clears his throat harshly before relaying what he heard from the council this morning. “Canada’s official stance is that the facility in Yukon and those working on the premises are not tied to any legitimate government agency. They say the area is still _officially_ under construction, which means no one was supposed to be running anything out of it.”

Steve lets out a pained sigh, his head slowly shaking back and forth. “Bullshit. They set this all up. They killed those people. Those _children_.” He looks back up at Clint… at Tony, his voice raw and pleading when he says, “They _took_ them, _kept_ them… _branded_ them. They experimented on them and then somehow – probably some awful, painful how – they murdered them. And we’re just going to let them get away with it?”

“No,” Tony says, his voice carrying a corrective tone. “No, we’re not letting anyone get away with anything.”

“ _But_ ,” Clint interjects, “We gotta look at the bigger picture here. Scofield said there are other facilities, which means there are other… prisoners.”

“Including Tessa,” Wanda mentions.

Clint nods. “And if we have to play nice and pretend that we _believe_ these people when they say they didn’t know what was happening at that outpost, if we have to go along with what they say, or at least act like we’re going to… if we have to do that in order to find her, and others… I’m fine with that. For now.”

“Of course,” Tony interrupts, his expression pulling into a bitter sneer. “We’d probably be able to find them a hell of a lot faster if your assassin friend hadn’t ripped out the throat of the only man who likely knew where the other facilities were.”

Steve turns and chokes out a bitter, eerily threatening sounding laugh. “You know what, Tony,” he starts, leaning forward and shifting his weight to his toes in preparation for an advance.

Clint quickly steps between the two, an exhausted sigh billowing out of him as he says, “Can you two please just go to your separate corners.”

Tony throws up his hands in mock appeasement and takes the smallest of steps back. “I’m just speaking the truth.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he capitulates. “But I gotta tell ya, man, if I were Barnes and my wife was taken, and had been missing for _months_ …” He shakes his head slowly, morosely. “I would’ve cracked a hell of a lot sooner than he did.”

“He didn’t _crack_ ,” Wanda mutters meekly.

Steve lets out a soft sigh, gaze falling to the floor as he replies to her simply with, “You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t need to be,” she argues, pulling herself to her full height in front of the Captain. “I know what he feels. And I know what he felt then.”

“I hope it’s a shit ton of regret,” Tony snipes.

She spins to face him, gives him a reprimanding glare. “It is.”

“Look,” Clint starts, staring Tony down with a raised, warning brow. “What happened… happened. It doesn’t matter now. And I’m damn tired of you two butting heads over shit that _does not matter_.” He spins around and looks at Steve, takes in the cold, weary frown that he’s been wearing like a mask for months now. “We’re supposed to be a team,” he reminds him. “We _need_ to be a team.”

“Yeah,” he nods after a moment of thought. “Yeah, I know.” He glances quickly at Tony, then locks onto Clint’s steadfast stare. “Fine,” he says with a dejected, billowing sigh. “Release the guards. Send them back to Yukon… or wherever the hell they’re from.”

“What about the lab techs?”

“Romanov’s still working on them,” he admits just as the familiar clip-clop of designer boots filters in from the hallway.

Everyone in the small group pivots their attention towards the door as Natasha strides in and makes a beeline for the tense cluster of Avengers huddled around the kitchen counter. “We got something,” she declares, confidence permeating the words.

“Speak of the devil and she shall appear,” Clint smarts, sly smile on his face.

The redhead rolls her eyes dramatically at her friend’s remark and drops a tablet onto the countertop in front of him. “Here,” she says, pointing down at a blinking red dot overlaying the map on the screen. “The lab techs broke pretty easily, not that they had any real intel to give.” She leans back on her heels and blows out a long breath. “ _But_ , we do now have a lot more information about what exactly was going on at that facility. Vision’s compiling everything into a report now. In a nutshell, that place was used to assess tissue samples from dead mutants. To try and squeeze out whatever last bits of MGH they could find.” She shrugs with a forced casualness, has to in order to cover the pervading shudder that runs through her body. “Anyway, they gave us all of their passwords. Neither of them had very high clearance levels, but once in the database, we were able to hack into some of the files.”

“Nat,” Steve interrupts, his voice brimming with impatience. “What is _this_?” he asks, pointing down at the blinking dot.

“That,” she says with a deep breath, “is the _one_ location that all twenty two victims have in common. Each one of them – according to their intake files – spent at least _some_ time at Site 42-1-B,” she finishes, using the name found in their files. “We cross-referenced that name with info found in other files we’ve gathered over the past few months, and _this_ ,” she points again at the screen, “is where we believe Site 42-1-B is located.”

Steve stares down at the map, eyes honing in on the bright red beacon. “What do we know about it?”

She shrugs. “It’s in southern Nunavut.”

Tony gapes at her. “Did you just make that up?”

“It’s just north of Manitoba.”

“And?” Steve tries, turning an urgent and commanding stare on her.

“ _And_ … that’s all we know.”

He lets out an irritated huff and shakes his head. “Well…” His eyes ping back and forth among the expectant faces before him, and he pulls in a deep breath before setting his shoulders and stating with authority, “Let’s gear up.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tony interrupts, his hands flying into the air in a stilling gesture as he steps swiftly forward. “You’re not calling the shots on this one, Spangles. I’m running the show now.”

The Captain pulls back in shock. “What? What do you mean?”

He takes a single, confident step forward, putting him shoulder to shoulder with Clint. “I mean, I’m taking the lead on this.”

Steve’s eyes blow wide, brows puling together as he exclaims, “What the – ” before getting cut off by Natasha.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.” Steve gives her a look that’s equal parts rage and confusion, and the Widow has to bite back a smile at the sheer absurdity of it. She says nothing more, merely cocking her head to the side and raising a single, almost accusatory eyebrow at him.

“Are you blaming me for what happened?” he asks, an incredulous note to his voice. “For what Bucky…” He stares at her long and hard before asking, his tone suddenly almost desperate, “You think this my fault?”

She leans heavily onto the countertop and places a calming hand atop the man’s forearm. “Steve,” she intones gently. “The only person who thinks that _any_ of this is your fault, is _you_.” He glances over at her, his eyes bubbling with long-held, long-hidden emotion. “You don’t always need to take everything on yourself, you know.”

“That’s right,” Clint agrees, pulling Steve’s focus back to him. “Let’s let Stark take point on this one. It just makes sense. He and Sam can go in from above and get the lay of the land, put together a plan…”

“And you,” Tony interrupts, leveling Steve with a steely stare and a pointed finger, “can keep your soldier in check.” He rolls his eyes and lets out a small huff. “We all know he’s not gonna agree to stay behind, so you can either _make_ him stay back or you can babysit him on the op. But for the record, if he fucks up again – like he did with Scofield – that _will_ be your fault. Understood?”

Tony doesn’t wait for a reply, instead spinning on a heel and heading off to go prep. Steve lingers, stunned mouth agape, as he watches the man march out of the room, both Wanda and Natasha trailing deliberately after him.

Clint slowly sidles up close to Steve, the sudden silence in the room exacerbating the conspiratorial quality of his movements. “Listen, Cap,” he says in a hushed tone as he grasps the man’s arm and pivots him around. “There’s something else… something you should probably know. About Scofield. About what he said… before you guys got there.”

Steve clears his throat, taking a brief moment to regather his senses. “Yeah, okay,” he breathes out quickly, offering a nod. “What is it?”

He shakes his head slowly, solemnly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t think we can trust him, so keep that in mind.” He looks back up at Steve and pulls in a deep, fortifying breath. “The guy was nuts.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Bruce found MGH in his blood. We think he was experimenting on himself… enhancing himself. And that didn’t exactly go well for the others.”

Clint nods, his gaze drifting off towards nothing. “Right. Yeah, exactly.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment, waiting for him to go on, impatience etched across his face. “So what did he say?” he shoots out, tone harsher than intended.

He looks back up, lighting onto the Captain’s bright blue eyes. “He said that there’s a snake in our grass.”

His brows twist together into a confused grimace. “What does that mean?”

“He said that the soldiers they create will win out against the Avengers every time. Because _they_ understand loyalty. And _we…_ have a snake in the grass.” His eyebrows raise high as he searches the man’s face for signs of comprehension.

Steve’s frown slowly settles, his face taking on an impassive quality even as his lips tighten and pull into a firm line. He gives a single harsh, definitive nod – “Understood.” – and turns to go suit up for the task at hand.

000

There’s nothing. No one.

Site 42-1-B sits in the middle of a sprawling, desolate wilderness. A single expansive building, no more than one story off the ground, lies tucked away amid the trees, hidden by thick copses, nearly buried by a mid-winter’s heavy snow. There is no fence nor gate, nor any sort of security perimeter. There are no guards like those found surrounding the compound in Yukon. There are, in fact, no people at all, it seems. Not anymore.

“What… is this?” Clint mutters into the comms – voice thick and confounded – as he stares out over the south side of the property. He leans precariously back into the crook of the tree, his eyes wide and filled with disbelief as he watches his teammates approach the building, trudging slowly, carefully through the crimson-stained snow spewing out in all directions from the entrance.

The world around them – save the sounds of their own breaths and muffled gasps – is utterly silent. The air is cold enough to chap their skin, but absolutely still. Clear enough that any sound made for miles could easily carry their way.

But there is nothing. Not even the occasional trill of a bird or snap of a distant twig.

“It’s blood,” Tony announces, rising from his spot knelt down in the deep red slush. He had ventured in first, sticking a single finger into the partially melted snow without any hesitation, giving the built-in tech of his suit a moment to analyze it. “Human,” he finishes, as though anyone had really thought any different.

Clint scurries down from his post and makes his way slowly over, “What the hell,” trailing from his parted lips and into the comms inside everyone’s ears.

The others – Steve, Bucky, and Natasha – stand idly in a straight line just outside the bloody mess, each one’s gaze traveling in a different direction, searching the stark white world for some sort of explanation. Warily, Bucky points up – towards a short line of trees that rim the building – and clears his throat to get the attention of the rest of the team. Steve and Natasha turn, each letting out a small gasp when their eyes settle on the stringy flesh and sinew hanging from the branches.

“What the hell,” Clint repeats, his voice no longer sounding through the others’ earpieces but in their periphery as he settles in beside them. They stand in a dazed cluster, no more than a stride away from the blood-soaked earth, staring up at the frozen, pulpy tissues in the trees.

“It’s like a bomb went off,” Steve mutters, his voice barely a whisper.

Tony pulls back out of the red, ravaged grounds, retreating the handful of steps back to his team. “Not a bomb,” he declares simply. “There’s no damage to the building. Or the trees, the land.” He shakes his head slowly as he works to make sense of the inexplicable carnage they find themselves standing in the middle of.

“I’ve seen Hydra weapons,” Steve starts, tone low, as his eyes continue to veer wildly around. “But… even those didn’t do… _this_.”

“What then?” Natasha asks, a bite to her voice as it echoes through the icy air. “What could’ve done this?”

Bucky shoves past, clipping her with his shoulder as he struggles to find footing in the deep snow. He pulls each thick black boot up and out of the depths with an uncanny sort of care and grace, his hands – tightly fisted at his side now that the high-powered rifle has been slung across his back – bracing him for balance. “Maybe it’s not _what_ ,” he mutters, voice low but more than loud enough to rumble through the cold, still air and into each of the people at his back. “Maybe it’s _who_.”

It’s no more than a moment – a quick, fleeting, barely considered moment – before the others are at his heels, trudging through the blood-stained snow towards the entrance of the building. “Sam,” Steve speaks into the comms, calling out to the Falcon in the sky, “We’re heading in. Let us know if anything happens out here.”

The door is ajar. Heavy metal firmly positioned at an open angle. Bucky nudges it open the rest of the way, peering hesitantly into the dark corridor. Again – inside, outside – the place is utterly empty. Tony moves to the front, slipping up ahead of the super soldier with a firm and caustic, “Ahem,” reminding him – and the others – that this is his mission to lead.

And really, the last person he wants up in front right now is the guy who just lost it on an op and tore out a man’s throat. Truth be told, Tony didn’t want him out here at all. He’s a liability. If he snaps again and does something he can’t take back… that could ruin their chances of seeing this thing through. If he loses it completely and has some kind of flashback – or _break_ – setting him back to the Winter Soldier… that could put more than just this mission in jeopardy. And if he sees something in here – in this strange and terrifying hellscape – that he simply can’t bear to see… well, Tony would rather not have to live with the guilt that would bring.

They move slowly down the darkened hall until reaching a small atrium filled with cozy looking couches, a reception desk, and a stone fountain still burbling in the corner. The group pulls in a collective breath as their eyes trail along the wall of windows to the left, the large panes of glass splashed with garish red. In the center of the wall, another door hangs open, this one, like the surrounding windows, comprised of blood-smeared glass.

“Friday,” Tony murmurs as he slowly approaches the door. “Any life form readings?”

“No, sir,” the AI responds simply. “There is no one living on the premises other than the Avengers.”

His head drops, hand stilling on the door as he issues out a shuddering breath through his nose. Bucky steps up behind him, places his metal hand on the shoulder of the shiny red suit. “Just go,” he says, voice firm and forceful. There’s no hint of a threat, though, nor of the sorrowful disappointment that Tony feels slowly seep into his bones. It’s simply a directive, an urging to stay on track.

They file into the large open office one at a time, again gazing in awe – in horror – at the walls, floors, ceilings – _everything_ – all covered in blood, viscera, and unrecognizable… parts. On one of the desks, Bucky gently nudges a chunk of torn flesh with his metal index finger, face expressionless as he flicks it to the floor.

Steve stands in the middle of the room and spins in a slow circle. “It’s like… the people just… exploded,” he muses through shuddering lips.

Natasha pulls in a steadying breath and shoves past the Captain towards a short row of desks. “There are computers,” she mumbles, thrusting a sticky red chair out of the way before leaning over and flipping on one of the monitors. “Which means there are hard drives, which means that there’s data. Which means that there’s _evidence_.”

Clint sidles up next to her, watches over her shoulder as she begins to furiously tap away on the keyboard in an attempt to get in and break any encryption. “It doesn’t look like they were packing anything up before… leaving. Maybe they didn’t get a chance to destroy any files either,” he mutters as he reaches out and scratches a dried splatter from the screen. He wrinkles his nose in nose in disgust before leaning back on his heels and again looking around the room. “God, the smell,” he bites out.

“There,” Natasha declares triumphantly as she manages to bring the systems to life. All around them, monitors key up, showing various screens, mostly login prompts. But in the corner, on two large monitors that take up almost the entire wall, security footage flickers to life. They all turn to watch as the surveillance switches from outside the building – still quiet, dead – to inside. The front atrium shows first, then the office they stand in, each of them clearly shown in real time. “It’s a live feed,” she mutters absently.

Steve steps forward, right up next to the screens, as though – despite super vision – he can’t quite make out all that’s being shown. The feed pops to unfamiliar locations next. A long, barren hall, brightly lit and utterly empty. A room – a hospital room, it looks like – small and gray and devoid of all furniture, save a slight twin bed. His brows pull together as he watches the screen flip to another room, a mirror image of the first. Then another, the bed slightly more disheveled. Then another.

He spins around, eyes wide. “They’re all empty,” he states, as though the others hadn’t noticed themselves.

“Well,” Clint breathes out, eyes still glued to the screens. “We know that subjects were kept here. Guess that’s where they kept them.”

Tony powers down the suit, nanoparticles swiftly dissipating around his limbs and pulling back into the storage unit at the center of his chest. “But where are they now?” he asks, distractedly shoving things around atop a desk. He frowns deeply and purposively turns his back on the surveillance, trusting that Clint will continue to keep his hawk eye on it. He meanders over to the far wall, slipping in some still wet, sticky blood and cursing to himself as he goes to investigate the dozen or so cabinets he sees there. They’re all locked, of course. So he lets out an annoyed huff and pulls a cuff from his pocket, engages it to quickly encase his hand, and digs his fingers in around the digital deadbolts, pulling each and every one apart with a thick grinding and pop.

“We should find these rooms,” Clint murmurs, hands on his hips as he continues to stare at the screens as they flicker through different cameras. “They all look the same… I can’t tell how many there are.”

Steve nods firmly. “There was a door on the other side of the reception area. Maybe that leads to them.” He gently drops his hand to Bucky’s bicep, feels the muscle tighten as his touch pulls the man’s attention from the screen. He notes the intensity of his friend’s gaze, the desperation in his eyes as they flicker from his face back to the footage. “She’s not here,” he tells him, voice low and just for him. “All of the rooms are empty.” He shakes his head, an apologetic – no, _guilty_ – frown pulls at the corners of his eyes when Bucky turns back to him. “She’s not here.”

“But she was,” sounds suddenly from behind them, Tony’s booming voice drawing everyone’s attention. He looks out at the expectant team, a bitter scowl on his face as he upends a small lockbox onto one of the cleaner desks. A short clatter echoes through the room as tiny trinkets fall from the metal box and bounce onto the wood of the desktop.

Bucky steps over – Steve plastered to his side – and gazes down at the felled objects. A cell phone with a bright blue shell – _It’s the exact color of your eyes._ A plastic ID badge hanging from a cheap, Avengers-themed lanyard – her picture at the center, Stark Industries printed in large block letters at the top. Two rings – a bright, shining platinum band and a circle of pure white gold with a giant emerald at its center, small diamonds reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights at its side.

Tony takes a step back, so does Steve. Silence once again fills the room, fills their ears, as Bucky hesitantly reaches out and slowly traces along the rim of the platinum band with a single calloused fingertip. Then he swiftly swipes at the rings, pulling them both from the desktop and folding them into the safety of his tightly closed fist.

000

The water is painfully icy as it beats down on her, soaking each and every spot of crusty and congealed blood that’s cemented to her flesh. And it feels _so damn good_.

She leans forward, pressing numb fingertips into the cheap plastic liner of the small shower stall. And she pulls in a deep, shuddering breath as her head pivots beneath the tiny, slowly pulsing showerhead, letting the cold water flow over her burning skin. _I’m on fire_ – that’s the only singularly discernable thought that’s managed to filter through her conscious mind for hours now. Maybe days.

_I’m on fire. I’m on fire. I’m on fire._

She glances down at her bare feet, deep blue, almost black in places, and splotched with the palest white. “Frostbite,” she mumbles, the word falling from her lips in a barely there slur. Her brow wrinkles instantly as she works to find meaning for the strange utterance. But all she can think is _I’m on fire. I’m on fire._

Her eyes blink slowly, fatigue just beginning to set in after so much time _buzzing_. She stares blearily down at the water pooling round the drain, watches intently as the deep browns and dark crimsons swirl into a sickening eddy. As the tiny holes in the grate clog with small chunks and flakes of…

_“Would you just let me help?”_

She startles sharply as the vision – sudden and unbidden – jolts her into an altogether different reality.

Her own voice echoes eerily in her ears – pinging only a slight familiarity in her muddled brain – as she inspects the now large and marbled shower stall filled with steam and the sweet scent of vanilla. Her breath catches as she looks at her hands… no longer pale and plastered to the wall, but glistening with tiny, opaque suds as they glide over a set of massive naked shoulders. A single no-longer-numb finger slowly traces the arc of a thick scar on the body in front of her, marking the line between flesh and metal.

She breathes out slowly, blinks her eyes shut, and lets herself get drawn entirely into the eerily recognizable dream.

_“I can take a shower on my own,”_ _he says, voice thick with fatigue and regret._

_She frowns deeply as her eyes linger on the line of deep blue bruises pocking his back. “I know,” she says simply, filling her palm with shampoo._

_He lets out a sigh so long and loud that it can be heard over the steadily streaming water beating down around them. “I just…” he tries, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to lose control.”_

_She works her fingers into his thick, dark hair, massaging the suds into his scalp and smiling gently when she feels him relax back into her, just a bit. “Steve didn’t seem too worried,” she whispers into his ear before placing a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek. And it’s true, he hadn’t. He had called her when they were on their way back, had her pulled from her lab so he could explain that the mission they were on went_ just a little bit sideways _. But not to worry, everything was fine._

_Then she saw Bucky stalk off the jet, covered in blood – very little of it his own – and she took in his face, and it very quickly became clear why Steve had called to warn her at all._

_She took him back to her place – which at this point really did feel like_ their _place anyway – and ushered him straight into the bathroom, gingerly peeling off his suit, setting aside weapon after weapon hidden and tucked away amid the armor._

_The entire time, his face remained expressionless. Shell shocked. Empty._

_The suds spilling from his hair are stained a sort of dull pink, the blood washing away in thick, foamy streams of bubbles. “C’mere,” she says, taking hold of his shoulders and slowly turning him to face her. He doesn’t look her in the eye when he turns, his gaze falling down, directed towards nothing. “Lean back,” she tells him gently, helping to pivot him beneath the showerhead to rinse out his heavily lathered hair._

_“I don’t want to be him,” he mutters, the words almost lost in the cacophony of shower echoes. “Soldat,” he murmurs in an oddly accented tone._

_Her fingers fall from his scalp, tracing slowly down his temple to the side of his face. She cups his cheek with her palm, the hot water pooling between their skin. Instinctively, he turns into her hand and lays a long and lingering kiss on her palm, his eyes blinking shut as he does so. “You’re not him,” she states with absolute authority._

_He releases a long, shuddering breath and shakes his head warily, still refusing to look at her – he’ll look anywhere but at her. “I don’t want to be… a monster.”_

_Her eyes bounce over his face for a long moment, settling finally on his plump bottom lip, the corner of which is pulled between his teeth, being steadily worked and mottled. “You’re not a monster,” she says, swallowing hard as she turns to grab a bottle of body wash._

_When she looks back, his steely blue eyes are on her, gazing sadly at her… almost through her. He reaches out and grabs the sudsy shower poof from her trembling hand. “Look at what you’re doing,” he tells her, an awful sincerity dripping from his lips. “You’re washing_ people _off of me, Tess,” he says in a voice so deep and despondent. “They were_ people _. And now they’re…”_

_His gaze ticks down to the floor of the shower, to the frothy red and brown water spinning, spinning, spinning round the drain. Her own eyes follow his, down to the dark liquid… peppered with small chunks and flakes._

“Monster,” she mutters slowly, the word thick and foreign on her tongue. A deep tremor overtakes her body as she opens her eyes and sees the shower transform back into the tiny, dingy space she quickly commandeered after writhing in though the cabin’s broken window not more than an hour ago. The water suddenly feels so very, very cold… the fire in her flesh – in her blood – finally starting to abate.

For several long moments, her eyes continue to stare down at the shower drain, the water only just now beginning to run clear. And again she utters, voice almost indiscernible even to her own ears, “Monster.”


	48. 112 Days

Natasha’s already begun the meeting by the time Bucky and Steve arrive, her relaxed tone and posture a clear cover for the anxiety bubbling within. “We still don’t have everything decoded – not even close, actually,” she states, giving the men a quick nod as they each take their seats at the opposite end of the conference table. “But we did manage to get into some of the surveillance files.”

“So they did keep recordings,” Steve breathes out, a sudden relief filling his tone.

She nods, but it’s Clint who picks up the conversation. “Looks like they had surveillance running in almost every room. All the time. So there’s a lot to sift through.”

Natasha leans forward and begins typing on the keyboard in front of her, exchanging terse words in hushed tones with Tony as he looms nervously over her shoulder. The screen at the front of the room comes alive, multiple files popping up at once, each of the windows containing somewhat grainy footage. “This,” she says, pulling one open and expanding it, “Is room 19.” All at once, the video comes to life as a dark-haired woman is thrust violently forward, tripping over her own feet as she’s tossed into the tiny room. “And this, according to the video stamp, is Subject 122.”

Steve lets out a sharp breath, his eyes widening, shoulders drooping as he watches the woman turn and face the camera. His mouth falls open as though he’s about to speak, but no words come out. Instead it’s Bucky – who’s now leaning forward intently, eyes glued to the figure on the screen – who says simply, “She was there.”

“Yeah,” Tony mutters from his spot by Natasha. He’s still standing at her side, the only one in the room refusing to sit. His arms are crossed tensely over his chest, his thumb rising deliberately to his mouth as he watches the woman on the screen lean her back against the wall and slowly slide down into a defeated heap. He bites at his thumbnail as he mumbles something to the effect of, “too late.”

Clint pulls himself upright and explains to the group that, “Nat and I spent the last 24 hours combing through all of the footage we could get into. It’s just a handful of the rooms where subjects were kept… most of them were empty. We haven’t been able to get into any of the other files yet. But once we found her…” He trails off and sighs deeply, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. “We went through everything. A full 112 days from _this_ ,” he waves his hand at the screen in front of them, “to the day we got there and pulled everything off line.”

Bucky turns to face him, swiveling in his seat, yet still keeping Tessa in the corner of his field of vision, almost refusing to blink as he continues to keep watch. “Did you have her the whole time? In this room? When did she leave?”

He gives his friend a small, sad smile. “We lose visual at day 108.”

“Too late,” Tony mutters again absently. “Four days too late.”

Everyone’s attention flits back to the screen as Natasha begins fast-forwarding through the surveillance footage. “They pretty much left her alone the first day,” she says, talking them through the hours of video – hours of Tessa’s life – as they’re shortened to mere moments. Tessa sits unmoving for a large portion of the time, then begins to steadily pace the room… to their eyes, speeding around the tight space, though every moment likely felt an eternity to her. “But these guys show up first thing in the morning.” She hits play and leans heavily back in her chair so the others can see the four men who enter the room.

Tony steps quickly over to the screen and points to the tallest man. “That’s Lobe,” he states, as though everyone in the room hadn’t become familiar with his picture by now. “This one,” he says, tapping the screen beside another man’s face, “is Eric Campbell. Former military intelligence.” He spins around to glare at the group at the table. “ _US_ military intelligence.”

“He doesn’t show up often,” Natasha says before quickly moving on to say, “But if you’re looking for another familiar face – ”

“Scofield,” Bucky growls out the moment the older man appears on the screen.

Clint nods, a disgusted snarl curling his lip. He directs a pointed finger at the screen. “He’s in play for the first few weeks, then we don’t see him again.”

“There’s no audio?” Steve inquires, already knowing the answer from the lack of sound despite some very obvious shouting matches playing out before them.

Natasha shakes her head. “The audio files are all encrypted too. Vision’s working on them now.” She skips ahead again, all of the figures moving spastically about as their speed is increased tenfold. “Because Lobe and Scofield are in the room, we’re guessing they’re talking about the X-gene inhibitor and isolating MGH. And we’re also guessing that she refuses to give them anything because,” her voice trails as she hits the intended time stamp and glares openly up at the screen. They all watch as Tessa says something to Lobe, the look on her face one of pure vitriol and – Bucky can tell because he’s seen it too many times in the midst of their own arguments – utter frustration. She’s on the verge of tears, which he knows from firsthand experience means she’s libel to lash out even more, dig even deeper into her opponent.

Lobe takes a calm step back and the only unidentified man in the group, a uniformed officer of some kind, strides steadily forward and – before she even seems to realize he’s there – grabs her by the hair and slams her head into the wall. Hard. Twice.

They all watch as her body slumps heavily and drops to the ground. The video continues to play, the four men leaving the room – Lobe and the officer calmly, Scofield and Campbell in a bit of an annoyed huff. Natasha glances over at Wanda, who’s been sitting silently by her side since long before this debrief even began. They share a quick, sad look before she directs her attention to Steve and Bucky.

“That’s day two,” Steve says slowly, his voice deep and oddly authoritative despite the stricken look on his face. He sees Bucky in his periphery, sees that the man’s eyes are still glue to the screen, his face expressionless. “What about the next hundred days?”

Nat and Clint share a meaningful look as though deciding who’s going to break some sort of painful news. An unarticulated agreement flows between them, an understanding. Natasha releases a long, deep breath and begins skipping ahead in the video once again. The moment she hits fast-forward, Bucky inadvertently jumps in his seat. He turns a fleeting scowl on the redhead, momentarily angry with her for speeding through the only time he’s had with his wife in months.

But she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are fixed on the footage that she had very nearly committed to memory, no matter how painful much of it may be.

“The first few weeks are the same,” she says in a low voice as quick-moving images play over the screen. Tessa curled up on the blanket-less bed, almost certainly shivering, very likely crying. Tessa pacing in frustrated circles as her mind works on overdrive – they’re all of sure of it – to figure a way out of this predicament. Tessa sitting stark still, head dropped, gaze averted, as Scofield and Lobe – sometimes both, sometimes one at a time – talk to her, try to argue with her, poke at her. Tessa being punched by any number of uniformed officers, thrown to the ground and kicked, stomped. Tessa curling up on the bed once more, tucking her bleeding face away, holding tight to her bruised and broken body.

Over and over and over again, the routine plays out, broken up only by sporadic visits from a woman in gray scrubs who brings her food and – occasionally – cleans her wounds. “She’s not eating,” Bucky mumbles to himself, his eyes still moving in rapid time along with the images. He reaches a hand out across the table as though trying to reach Natasha, trying to still her. “Stop,” he says simply, almost serenely. “Just… stop.”

She lets the video play and they all watch as Tessa slowly rocks back and forth on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face buried behind them as she folds in on herself. Her hair is a wild, tangled mess hanging about her shoulders. Her clothes – the same navy pantsuit she wore the day she was taken – are torn and tattered, stained brown and red with blood of varied freshness.

“What day is this?” Steve breaks into the tense silence to ask.

Natasha clears her throat gingerly. “Day 14.”

He blows out an angry sigh, tightly shutting his eyes as he recoils from the video playing before him. “How long?” he asks, still not able to look up at the screen – nor at anyone in the room. “How long did this go on?”

“Twenty-eight days,” Clint says as he gives Natasha a quick, commanding nod. She chances a glance at Bucky, watches him for just a moment as he continues to stare at Tessa on the screen. Then she jumps ahead in the video, moving straight into Day 20 and speeding through the footage from there. “Day 28, no one enters the room. No Lobe. No Scofield. No nurse… or whatever the hell she is.”

“No food,” Wanda supplies sadly, speaking for the first time as her eyes hone in on the broken woman who now sits huddled in the far corner of the room.

“No food,” he repeats. “For almost three days, there’s no contact.”

Steve turns painfully slowly to look back at the screen, his brows knitting together as he watches Tessa remain fixed in a tight ball in the corner for almost the entirety of that time.

“Then this,” Natasha says suddenly as she lets the video play once again.

A man dressed in olive drab enters the room, the same soldier from earlier on his heels. “That’s US Army,” Steve mutters blankly as his eyes follow the new green-clad man on the screen. Natasha merely nods, saying nothing as she watches the man cross the room in just a few short strides and violently backhand Tessa across the face the moment she looks up at him.

Steve winces at the action. Wanda and Clint turn away. Tony – in preparation for what he knows is to come – leans heavily against the wall, his fists clenching tightly by his sides. Natasha’s eyes flick over to Bucky, take in his stern, emotionless expression, and return to the screen just in time to see Tessa lean forward and, with a fierce determination, spit directly into the American’s eye. Then the redhead blinks her eyes shut, refusing to watch what happens next.

The beating is horrific. Brutal and merciless. Long and sadistic.

Those who had already seen the footage refuse to watch it again, each of them turning sad gazes anywhere but at the offending screen. Steve watches with wide, shocked eyes, letting out a single audible gasp when the man’s boot drills into Tessa’s chest. A choked sort of sob stills halfway in his throat as he sees her body jerk and recoil from the impact before going eerily limp. His mouth gapes, but no words rise to his lips – no curses nor cries nor admonishments. No reassurances nor promises nor comforts. He simply stares ahead, dumfounded, watching in a sick sort of awe as his friend’s body twitches and begins to convulse. He watches as she painstakingly rolls onto her back, a thick spurt of blood shooting from her lips as she chokes and sputters.

There’s a sudden _crack_ that resounds through the room then, the moment Tessa begins coughing up blood on the screen. Clint glances to his right and sees Bucky’s metal hand holding tight to the broken arm of his chair. He can hear the bionic mechanism whirring as each finger clenches tighter, tearing through the cushion and crumbling the plastic to dust. The metal plates scrape viciously against the alloy skeleton of the armrest in a final awful grinding before what’s left of the support fragments to pieces, dropping from his firmly clenched fist to the floor.

But Bucky’s face betrays nothing. Still it is placid. Stoic. Expressionless.

Slowly, Clint pivots his gaze from his friend’s eerily impassive face back to the screen before them. He looks back just in time to see a still gasping and retching Tessa struggle to reach over and grasp the hand of the woman who had entered just after the two soldiers left. Though he knows what happens next, he can’t bring himself to look away. The show is just so… stunning. So terrifying and beautiful. Awful and awesome.

They all watch as flashes of blue light flicker on the screen. Blindingly bright threads of azure, turquoise, and deep, rich navy spill out from Tessa’s hands – from her body – and wind themselves around the woman in scrubs. Quick electrical pulses permeate the air – they can tell because the footage blinks out intermittently – as the woman crumbles to the floor.

Tessa stretches out and rolls onto her side, heaves several giant, gasping breaths. She looks up and the camera catches the startling, almost blinding gleam to her eyes as blue flashes overtake her familiar face.

“That’s what happened in San Francisco,” Tony announces from the corner of the room. His voice is low but sharp, biting, almost accusatory. “Only she… shoved all that into me. To heal me.”

“She healed herself,” Wanda declares simply, tone soft.

They continue to watch as two large men enter the room and – trying their best to avoid touching her – kick at Tessa with heavy boots, shoving her harshly away from the woman by her side. One of the men leans down and gingerly feels for a pulse on the oddly gray, almost burnt-looking form. He recoils and retreats slowly from the room, backing into a man in a lab coat who comes barreling in, syringe in hand.

It takes them a moment to recognize that it’s Lobe. It’s Lobe who forces his way into the room, dropping heavily down to the floor to lean over Tessa’s still crumpled body. It’s Lobe who – in one swift, fluid motion – stabs a needle into her neck, shoving the plunger down to inject what they can only assume is a sedative of some sort into her. It’s Lobe who turns slowly, his pale and terrifying face captured easily by the camera as it morphs into an utterly delighted beam.

He motions to someone just outside the door and rises to his feet as two more soldiers enter and gather a limp, unconscious Tessa into their arms, carrying her from the room.

Steve’s head whips around, bouncing quickly back and forth between Natasha and Clint. “Where’d they take her?” he asks, eyes wild.

Nat’s gaze falls to the tabletop, a light sheen of tears forming over her eyes. She shrugs, but says nothing. “We don’t know,” Clint states, staring ahead at his heartbroken friend. “Like we said, we’ve only been able to get into the footage of these rooms so far. Best guess, though… well, you saw it.”

A shadow passes over Steve’s dull blue eyes as they fall down to stare at nothing, aimed at the tabletop, taking in only flashes of the pristine room filled with bright, shining stainless steel equipment that lay at the very end of the final corridor they moved through just yesterday. Medical equipment and monitors – most of which they still hadn’t figured out a purpose for – lined the walls. But it was the sight of the naked exam table at the center of the room – complete with rubber mattress and built-in restraints – that caused his stomach to clench violently… both then and now.

Natasha sniffles once, a thick, wet snort, and then pulls herself together to continue. “It’s a new pattern.” She skips ahead in the video to show Tessa being returned to the room, dumped unceremoniously onto the bed by two scrubs-clad men. “Every day,” she goes on. “She’ll start to wake up in a few hours… usually either curls up like she’s in pain or starts pacing the room. Then…”

She fast-forwards a bit and stops just in time for a gradually growing cloudiness to filter into the room, over the top of the camera. Tessa remains curled up in the corner as the thick smoke descends, seemingly oblivious to it. Then her arms drop their grip around her knees, her entire body sagging and going limp as she slumps to the floor.

“Some kind of gas,” Clint supplies as Natasha moves forward a ways through the footage. “Takes about an hour to clear, then they pull her out.” They all watch as the video picks up again with two men – this time in scrubs rather than military uniforms – moving into the room and over to the hunched figure in the corner. One of the men moves around behind her, placing his hands beneath her armpits to hoist the top of her body while the other sharply hikes up her legs. They carry her from the room with little effort, despite the dead weight, a thing that doesn’t surprise Bucky in the least, the nonsensical thought of _she’s not eating_ still reverberating through his mind.

Natasha jumps ahead in the video yet again, letting footage of a sleeping Tessa play for a moment. Bucky narrows his eyes at the woman on the screen. Her clothes have been changed. She’s now wearing a bright white hospital gown, the starkness of it offsetting her pale pallor and making her look almost translucent. He hones in on her wrists. The picture quality isn’t great, but with how pale the rest of her is, it’s easy enough to see the thick red and purple marks that wind around her wrists and forearms. His eyes slowly move down to her feet and take in the same vile bruising around her ankles. “They tied her down,” he mutters, his voice soft and hesitant. His gaze moves to her face, pained though it might be. He can’t get his eyes to budge from that face.

“So she wouldn’t have been unconscious the whole time,” Steve murmurs. “They wouldn’t have had to restrain her if she was unconscious.”

The room goes painfully still, a truth that they’d all been trying to deny, hoping to dispel, slowly settling in around them. Tony’s the first to break the silence. “They couldn’t get the science that they wanted out of her, so they took the next best thing.”

At that… they dismiss, Clint being the one who makes the call after scanning the room and taking stock of the dejected stares. The expressions he sees range from near despair – like that on Wanda’s face – to barely controlled rage – as with Tony – to a pained sort of blankness – from Bucky.

Tony practically runs from the room once they decide to end the debrief. Steve and Wanda leave slowly, taking time to get their limbs back in working order before trudging out of the dark room. Clint drops a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he passes and it’s just enough to bring the solemn man a bit out of his stupor.

Bucky looks up at him briefly, then shifts his gaze to Natasha, who’s fiddling with the computer, shutting down windows on the screen. “Leave it,” he barks out at her as she starts to drag away the active feed of Tessa turning restlessly atop the bed in her cell.

She leaves it up, saying nothing, only turning to him with weary eyes. Clint pulls a chair over to Bucky’s side. “You okay?” he asks, voice soft and deep.

He turns and stares at the man for a long moment, utterly unreadable expression still on his face. “I don’t know how you want me answer that,” he says before dragging his eyes back up to the barely recognizable woman on the screen.

“She got away,” Natasha states, her tone decisive.

“Or whatever took out the others… took her,” he says with a raised, challenging brow.

She shakes her head slowly, adamantly. “No.”

Clint releases a long sigh. “You know, it could be…” His eyes are wide and kind as he looks to Bucky. “She might’ve been the one who did that. With her powers…”

He narrows his eyes at the man to his left. “And that’s better? Them turning her into some sort of monster?”

Natasha rises from her seat and crosses over to get closer to the men. “If it was her, then she just did what she needed to do to survive. That doesn’t make her a monster.”

He leans forward and bites out, “Those people were torn apart.”

She counters coolly with, “Not too long ago, I saw _you_ tear a man apart too. Doesn’t mean you’re a monster.”

He falls back into his chair, his eyes flicking once again to the screen, eager to avoid Nat’s piercing gaze. “You sure about that?”

“I’m sure about it,” Clint says as he slowly rises. “If that asshole had my wife… said those things to me? I’d have ripped out his throat too.” He gives Bucky another pat on the shoulder as he rises and heads for the door. “What you did makes you a scared, fed-up man. Not a monster.” He glances quickly up at the screen. “Take the time you need, but don’t get sucked in. Watching her like this isn’t gonna do you any good.”

Bucky continues to stare up at the screen, watching every little movement Tessa makes. Every breath – both the smooth and the shuddering. Every tick and twitch. He knows that Clint’s right, seeing her like this won’t help anything. But he’s so desperate to just _see_ her that he can’t tear his eyes away.

Natasha stays by his side, watching him… watching her. “We’re close,” she states simply. “This is not a dead end.”

“You really believe that?” He turns his gaze on her, his eyes shining with a sheen of grief and desperation.

She nods – “I know it.” – and reaches out to take his hand in hers. “And for the record, Barton’s right about you being just a man. No offense,” she ends with a smirk.

He shakes his head. “What kind of man can’t protect his own wife?”

She gives a little snort. “Going pretty old school on me there, Barnes.” She releases his hand and sits upright, stretching out her back. Glancing back up at the still-sleeping woman on the screen, she says, “Tessa’s an omega level mutant. Tony – _Iron Man_ – was right by her side. What could _you_ have done?”

He says nothing, just continues to stare at the woman on the screen – the woman. His _wife_. The love of his life. His _everything_ – as he surreptitiously fingers the rings hidden away in his pocket.

Natasha rises finally, silent and graceful as always. “We have more files,” she mutters, her voice hesitant. “There’s heavy encryption on the ones from the… well, whatever room that was.” She swallows thickly, gaze ducking away from Tessa’s broken form on the screen. “We’ll get into them. But…” She lets out a long sigh. “Just… like Clint said, you really shouldn’t spend too much time watching her… seeing her like this.”

He glances up at her as she looms just above his shoulder, his deep-set eyes and far-too-familiar frown telling her all she really needs to hear. But he speaks the words anyway – “This is the only way I have of seeing her.” – before slowly turning back to the screen in front of him.

000

Once clear of the conference room – each and every one of them more than eager to get out of that space and away from the horrible images dancing on that screen – Tony and Steve both stop to linger just outside the common area. They stand in mutual silence, watching the others trudge off to their separate rooms where they can each take a bit of time to regroup before getting back to work.

It’s another few minutes of silent loitering before Tony finally speaks, voice soft and low. “How long you gonna let him stay in there?”

Steve glances up at the man before him before huffing out a pained sigh. “I don’t know,” he admits with a sad shake of his head. His gaze falls down to the floor, to his foot as it nervously scrapes at the hardwood. “I guess I’ll give him as long as he needs.”

“What he _needs_ is her. Not some beat-up prisoner on the TV.” Steve’s eyes fly up, giving him a scathing, reprimanding glare. “You know what I mean,” he mutters with a shrug.

“Yeah,” he admits before clearing his throat, stilling his foot, and pulling his shoulders back to set stoically. A quick change of position, a sudden mental shift, and the Captain is back, ready to take on the next leg of their mission. “Sam’s still up in Nunavut. A lot of the area’s too remote to traverse on foot, so he’s doing flyovers.”

“Yeah, I know. I sent Rhodey up to help him out this morning.”

“Good,” he nods, the look on his face showing a hint of confusion… of surprise. “Yeah. Good thinking.”

“I was going to head up there a little later. I wanted to check in with Vision first, see how far he got on the other surveillance footage.”

Steve cringes at that, his stance faltering just a bit. “You want to see what went on in that… I don’t know what to call it… a lab?”

“Looked almost like a surgical suite.”

“I don’t…” he interrupts quickly, throwing up a single, stilling hand. “I just… can’t think about that right now.”

To his credit, Tony doesn’t scoff. He doesn’t ridicule or jest in any way. He simply nods, nervously shoving his hands into his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. “The Department of Public Safety is moving into the site in Yukon,” he says, pausing long enough to capture Steve’s newly intrigued stare. “Bruce got word this morning that they’ll be taking over the investigation.” He shrugs glibly. “I told him to pack up what he could and come back home.”

“You told him to just… leave?” he asks, disbelief flooding his tone.

“I did.” He nods slowly, eyes pinging down the hall for just a beat, still waiting for Bucky to walk out of the conference room. “I don’t want him up there,” he says quickly, returning his attention to Steve. “Bruce. Wanda. I don’t want any _enhanced_ people up there. It isn’t safe.”

“I can’t argue with that,” he breathes out simply.

“You and Barnes… you should head back to Yukon, keep an eye on things at the outpost. Keep the Canadians… honest.”

“You know,” he starts, small crooked smile pulling at the side of his mouth. “Technically, Buck and I are enhanced too.”

Tony lets out a boisterous snort, full of indignation. “You’re last century’s models. They’re building mutant soldiers now, Cap. I think everyone’s pretty much over your speedy running and neat shield tricks.” Steve releases the smallest, airy chuckle at that, causing a slight grin to tug at Tony’s lips as well. “But you can still be pretty intimidating. Barnes too. Hell, if anyone tries to fuck with you up there, just point to the blood stains on the floor from Scofield and tell them the Tin Man’ll do the same to them if they step outta line.”

“Right,” he mutters, brows popping high as a fleeting smirk rolls over his face. “Alright. We’ll go keep an eye on them.” He glances back down the hall, notes the still shut door of the conference room. “Just… I gotta let him have a few more minutes.”

“Yeah,” Tony nods, feeling his fingers suddenly hum as the cell in his pocket buzzes. “Sure. But they’ll be setting up shop soon.” He pulls out the phone and frowns down at the unfamiliar number before spinning towards the common area, tossing over his shoulder as he goes, “Don’t dawdle!”

It’s just a handful of strides before he enters the eerily quiet, abandoned common room and finally taps to accept the call. “Yes sir,” the deep voice on the other end begins following Tony’s sharp, _hello?_ “This is Officer Harold Halifax of the RCMP. Might I ask, to whom am I speaking?”

Tony’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “What? You called me? What do you mean… who is this?”

“Officer Harold – ”

He quickly cuts the man off – “How did you get this number?” – and pulls the phone away from his ear just enough to glance down at it and confirm that it is in fact his personal cell… his _private_ line.

“Well sir,” the booming voice goes on. “Your phone number was given to us by a young woman we picked up this morning for breaking and entering. Now maybe that’s not that big of a deal down there in New York – this is a New York number, isn’t it?” Without taking a beat to wait for an answer, he goes on with, “Well, it may not be a big deal down there. But up here in Manitoba, we got a different way of things.”

“Wait,” he sputters, spinning around and almost tripping over his own feet. “Manitoba?”

“Yes, sir. And… well, I know I said we picked your friend up. But I may have misspoke a bit… gotten ahead of myself. I don’t want you thinking she’s in trouble. That is to say, well, I suppose she _is_ in trouble. But truth is… well, sir… she doesn’t seem altogether _well_.”

Tony’s eyes slam shut and he cringes at the near nonsense being relayed to him, his brain only just starting to kick into gear. “You’re a police officer?” he issues out a bit too harshly. “In Manitoba?”

“Yes, sir. That’s right, sir. Officer Harold Halifax of the – ”

“And you have…” His breath catches in his chest. Only a handful of people have this number. Only a handful of people, all of whom Tony would trust with his life. Actually, he probably trusts more people with his measly life than he does with his private cell number. “You have _my_ _friend_?”

“Yes, sir. Well, she gave us your number anyhow… wrote it down for us. But she won’t tell us her name. Hasn’t said a word at all, actually. And she doesn’t have any identification, which could be a bit of problem if she’s American, you know?”

Tony feels his body stiffen, every muscle tightening as he shifts his weight to his toes and grips the phone so hard his fingers ache. “What…” he starts, his own voice getting drown out by an odd and overwhelming ringing in his ears. “What does she look like?” he asks, his legs suddenly waking up and springing to action, bolting for the door long before he ever gets his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was rough. But... could it be?! Is Tessa... found?


	49. Home Again, Home Again...

It isn’t intentional – heading for Manitoba on his own, telling the others nothing more than, “I gotta go take care of something,” on his way out the door. It’s not as though Tony is actively trying to keep the call – nor it’s hoped-for outcome – a secret. He just knows – after all that they’ve been through these last few months – he just knows that there’s a damn good chance this won’t amount to anything. And he doesn’t want to have to see the looks on their faces when that happens.

Sure, very few people have his private number. And yes, all of those – aside from Tessa – whom he can think of who _do_ have the number are safely accounted for. And the Hudson Bay area where the call originated from isn’t far at all from the base they’d just found up in Nunavut… the base where they _know_ Tessa had been just a week ago. And absolutely, all of these facts added together are enough to make his head spin and his heart race with childlike anticipation.

But still he feels a bitter disappointment lurking in his bones, an enduring fear and frustration that he just can’t shake. Though he – like all the others – has refused to give up hope, these past few months have taught him repeatedly to take every single lead with a giant, two-ton grain of salt.

So Tony furtively sets off to the little town along Hudson Bay alone, so eager to make it to that station just to _see_ if the woman they have in custody is Tessa, that he chooses to throw on the suit rather than take the time to commandeer a jet. It isn’t until he’s halfway there that he realizes if Tessa actually _is_ at the station, he has no way of getting her back home. And it isn’t until he arrives and lets the nanoparticle suit dissolve around him that he realizes he also hadn’t thought to wear a coat.

“I am so damn tired of Canada,” he mumbles indignantly as he stands off in a corner of the tiny RCMP outpost, shivering from a cold so intense that it somehow manages to permeate even the heated lobby. He huffs hot breath onto his frozen fingers and spins wildly around when he hears the door creak open behind him.

“Mr. Stark,” a giant beast of a man greets, wide and eager smile on his face as he sweeps into the room. Tony recognizes him right away as Officer Halifax, his voice just as big and booming in person as it had been on the phone. But even that powerful voice belies his striking physical presence. The man is a freaking giant – 6’5 minimum, and Tony doesn’t even want to guess at his weight. Yet Harold Halifax seems to have an almost jovial bounce in his step as he approaches, massive paw outstretched in greeting. And there’s something in his light brown eyes, a sort of genial reassurance, that causes the knots in Tony’s stomach to loosen, if only a bit.

He gives him a wary look, not entirely sure what to make of the earnest welcome. But he shakes his extended hand regardless, steeling himself for a bone-crushing grasp that never quite transpires. “Officer Halifax?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Yep, that’s me. Gotta say, had I known it was you on the phone, Mr. Stark, well… Well, I suppose I wouldn’t have said anything different. But I surely would’ve been excited.”

“Right,” he mutters, another cold-induced shudder rolling over him. “How do you live in this place?” he gripes, an irritated grimace tugging at his features. “It’s freezing.”

Halifax laughs, a deep, boisterous chuckle that’s both endearing and – to the currently impatient and _damn cold_ Tony – annoying as hell. “Well, sir, we typically dress for it.” He cocks his head to the side, narrows his eyes teasingly. “It’s winter in New York right now too, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he admits amid an eye roll. “I forgot a coat, I get it.”

Again, the officer emits a robust chortle. “I imagine your mother would be very disappointed in you,” he says, spinning around before ever getting the chance to take in Tony’s biting glare. He gives a small wave of the hand by way of _follow me_ and heads back through the heavy oak door, down a _much warmer_ corridor. “Is your friend from New York too? Is it a thing down there to not dress for the cold?”

Tony halts at mention of his _friend_. “She still hasn’t told you anything?” he asks, the concerned note to his voice and sudden stilling of his pace causing Halifax to turn in the middle of the hall to face him. “Not even her name?”

He gives Tony a kind look, a small, heartening smile pulling at his lips. “No, sir, she hasn’t. Barely said more than a few words the entire time.” He shifts his weight, giant feet shuffling a bit on the scuffed wood floor. “You said you believe she’s an employee of yours? One who’s gone missing?”

He clears his throat. “Yes. Sort of. I mean…” He tries to backtrack, not wanting to give out any more information than is absolutely necessary. “We haven’t been able to get ahold of her for a while, so I’m thinking it might be… not too many people have my cell number. She’s one of them. So…” His eyes ping nervously about, throat clearing once again in an utterly unnatural cover. He looks up at the officer and sees not an ounce of suspicion on the man’s face, just a sort of patient calm as he waits for Tony to gather himself. “She wasn’t wearing a coat?”

Halifax pulls in a long breath. “A coat? No. No, sir. No coat. Just some sweatpants and a hooded shirt. Snow boots about four sizes too big. No gloves or hat.” His brows shoot high as he begins shaking his head pensively back and forth. “I’ll be real honest, Mr. Stark. I don’t know how she survived out there.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Out _where_ exactly? You said you caught her breaking and entering? Around here?”

He nods slowly, somber expression overtaking his face. “Adele Woodbury called it in. She was out on one of her walkabouts – odd duck, that one – and she saw your friend wiggling her way into the Turner’s place. Turners leave town for most of the winter, so no one was home. And when Ms. Woodbury saw her sneaking in… well, she could see she wasn’t dressed for being out in this cold. So she phoned us, thinking the girl could use some help.”

His gaze falls down to his boots, voice soft and reticent when he says, “We tried to take her into the clinic, but she wouldn’t budge… actually _growled_ at us at the mention of it.” He chuckles just a bit before looking up at Tony. “That scared the hell out of Otto… little bitty thing growling like some kind of wild animal…” And his eyes take on that same kind, caring quality from just a moment before. “But I could tell she was the scared one. I told her we could bring her back to the station and give her a place to warm up, call someone for her, help her out best we could. Took some convincing, but… well…” He gives a shy shrug. “I don’t think she was really up for much of a fight.”

Tony nods slowly, taking everything in while also, in the back of his mind, working to quell his excitement at the prospect that this might actually be Tessa. And at the same time, working to convince himself it _can’t_ be her – _shouldn’t_ be her – because any woman roaming this town in nothing but sweats, breaking into people’s houses, and growling at the police is obviously not in a good way.

“You think she needs medical treatment?” he asks after a moment.

Halifax nods. “Pale as can be… she could barely hold herself upright. We gave her some hot soup, but she wouldn’t touch it… just stared at it like it was gonna get her or something. Otto over there,” he says, flipping his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the man struggling to stay awake behind a desk in the corner. “He’s a medic. Took him a bit, but he finally got her outta those damn boots.” He stops long enough to emit a low whistle before going on to say, “She’s got some _bad_ frostbite. Her fingers too. But her feet…” His head pivots back and forth slowly, solemnly.

“And you didn’t call a doctor?” Tony bites out, accusing note to his voice.

He looks back up at him, expression a bit stunned. “Well, no sir. She said ‘no.’ We pushed, but she said ‘no doctor.’” He gives a quick shrug. “Otto did his best to patch her up, wrapped her feet and all.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, impatience finally brimming over. “Yeah, fine. Just… can I see her?”

The room that Halifax leads him to is mostly dark, the lights dimmed to the point of a midsummer’s twilight. “Seemed like the lights hurt her eyes,” he says as he holds the door open for Tony. “Mumbled something about a headache, so we turned them down.” He steps into the room, though barely, clearly conscious of giving the woman in the corner her space. “Miss?” he says softly, gently. “We called the number you gave us. Your friend’s here to see you.”

Tony looms nervously behind the giant officer, leaning out just enough to catch a peek of the crumpled form sitting curled up on a chair in the corner. He takes a step to the side, brushing past Halifax, and stares long and hard at the woman, his eyes working to adjust to the dark.

There’s a part of him that doubts the creature before him is even a full grown adult, let alone the woman they’ve been so desperately searching for all these months. She’s wearing a dark sweatshirt, easily two sizes too big, with the hood pulled up over her head. Tiny, gauze-wrapped fingers grasp tightly to a thick brown blanket strewn over her shoulders, tucking it around her knees as they sit plastered to her chest.

But even with the heavy blanket enveloping her, he can see – from clear across the room – that her entire body is trembling wildly. He lets out a shuddering breath and glances over at the officer by his side. Halifax simply gives him a short nod – a silent _I’ll let you take things from here_ – before calmly slipping out of the room and softly closing the door behind him.

“Officer… uh, Halifax,” Tony begins, words tumbling nervously from his lips. “He said you gave him my number.” He walks over to her hesitantly, fisting his hands by his side to stave off the urge to race up and flip the hood off of her head. “Not many people have that number.” He pauses just in front of her, so close that he can hear her shallow, stunted breaths. “Do you know me?” he asks softly as he cautiously kneels down before her.

She looks up, her face still partially obscured by the hood… and by dark, tangled masses of waves.

He shoots a thumb behind him. “They uh… they said you wouldn’t tell them your name.” And he ducks his head a bit, trying to get a better angle to see her face. “Do you know your name?” She pulls in a quick, harsh breath when he scoots closer and his hands instinctively fly up in a yielding gesture. “Okay,” he mutters, dropping back onto his heels. “It’s okay.”

He issues out a long, deflating sigh, his eyes shooting around the room as though someone might be lurking in the shadows, at the ready with some sort of guidance on how to handle this rather _delicate_ situation. When his gaze returns to the woman in front him, he can see that her grip on the blanket has loosened and she’s sitting just a bit straighter in the uncomfortable-looking wooden chair.

There’s a sudden sort of shift in the energy of the room, one that even Tony can feel wash over him. Whereas just a moment ago it felt dark and forbidding, cold and lonely, now it feels lighter, warmer and… almost familiar. He leans forward just a bit, not enough to scare her with the advance. “Do you know me?” he asks again, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nods then, a scarcely perceptible shift of the head. The hood slips back just a bit, just enough that he’s able to make out the dull green eyes peering out at him. He connects with her timid gaze and lets out a sharp breath.

The edges of his lips curl into a small smile. And long-held tears begin to prick at his eyes. “You know me,” he states plainly.

She continues to stare at him, her form unmoving but for the perpetual tremble. “Take me home?” she asks, her voice small and breaking from lack of use.

He extends a single, shaky hand towards her – slowly in case she flinches again – and drops it to her knee. “Absolutely,” he chokes out, swallowing down hard when a torrent of tears begins to clog his throat. He gives a single, definitive nod, and in an agonizingly resolute tone, he declares, “Let’s go home.”

000

He calls Bruce – who’s set to be heading back to New York, oh, right about now – and he tells him to bring the jet for a pitstop in Hudson Bay. “I’ve got her,” he breathes out when Bruce asks why. “I’ve got her. And we need to get her home.”

The support team had been directed to stay in Yukon with Steve and Bucky when they arrived just about an hour earlier, so there’s no one else on the jet when it arrives. Tony mutters something about frostbite as he helps Tessa onto the plane, something else about _shock_ and _trauma_.

The words just flow together, each one butting up against the previous as they try to force their way into Bruce’s reeling mind. The fact is, there’s no room in his brain right now for _words_. There’s no room for anything other than then a flooding sense of relief when he sees her face – pale and pained though it might be.

The jet is made for quick travels and nothing more, the fully outfitted plane they take on missions remaining behind with the team in Yukon. So they don’t have anything more than a small, standard first aid kit to work with, a thing that has the doctor ranting once his voice finally returns to him. “I don’t think she’s hypothermic,” he mumbles as he drapes a foil emergency blanket over her shoulders. “But I can’t confirm that without a damn thermometer.” He shoves the useless first aid kit from the seat beside her onto the floor, huffing in frustration and dropping his head to his hands.

He feels the lightest touch on his forearm and pulls swiftly upright, his eyes sweeping over to find Tessa’s wrapped hand sliding down to his wrist. “I’m fine,” she says softly, her shaky, fatigue-addled voice barely recognizable.

He holds her gaze for a long moment before giving a terse nod and shifting his weight to better kneel before her. He gingerly pulls from her grip and takes her hand in his, turning it delicately in his grasp to inspect the bandages. “Frostbite,” he mutters almost to himself as his brow crinkles and his glasses slip down his nose. He looks back up at her, into her gloomy green eyes. “We can use the replica of the cradle when we get back. Depending on how deep the damage is…”

She tugs her hand from his and leans back into the seat, letting her lids drift shut. “Okay,” she drones blandly as Tony steps up and buckles her in.

“You wanna fly this thing or what?” he asks, giving Bruce a little shove. “You know how well I paid attention in pilot class.”

Bruce rises from the floor, gaze still trained on Tessa, working to assess her condition with just a look.

She’s pale and thin… almost skeletal. _Malnourished._ On her face, he can make out several new scars – a long silvery line trailing down along her temple, a tiny cord of raised flesh at the corner of her mouth, a small barely healed tear just above the bridge of her nose. _She’s been beaten_ , he thinks. _But the scars are healed… hopefully any internal damage is too._ And even though her shallow breathing indicates she’s already fallen asleep, her face is scrunched, brow pulled tight as she flinches at nothing. _Trauma_ , he muses, refusing to play out in his mind just what exactly that word might mean. _Trauma._

He frowns deeply, shoves the glasses back up his nose and strides over to the pilot’s seat. Tony sits down and straps in beside him, head cocked over his shoulder as his eyes continue to linger on the woman behind them. “I got ahold of Romanov,” he relays in a low tone. “She’s gonna have medical up and ready. Called Jessup in to help.”

“Good,” Bruce declares as the jet’s engines hum to life. “What about Barnes?” He turns to look at the man at his side when he receives no reply. “Tony?” he asks, less a question and more a chide. “You did call him, right?”

He snorts indignantly – “Of course I did.” – and directs his stare out the window in front of them, out into the dark, cold night. “I couldn’t get through. They’re probably busy dealing with… whatever’s going on up there.”

Bruce drops a long, labored sigh. “Yeah. Well. I did manage to get some good samples at least.” His head ticks back to indicate the small freezer he’d smuggled aboard and hidden in the back. “And I think we got cause of death. At least on a few…”

Tony nods, his frown deepening as he continues to stare out at the night sky. “You think we’ll get much else, now that the Canadians have taken over?”

He shrugs, leans over and flips a few switches before turning in his seat to face Tony. “I don’t know. But I also don’t know what else there is to _get_. You guys pulled the files from their server already. We got tissue samples from most of the bodies, including,” his eyes ping back to Tessa’s sleeping form, his voice dropping several octaves when he utters, “Scofield’s.”

“You think it’d be dangerous to leave the support team up there without Cap and Barnes?” he asks, his tone oddly hesitant. “You think I should pull them out?”

He turns back to the instrument panel and checks all of their data. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think they’d do anything.” He shrugs again, this one a bit more relaxed, before settling back into the seat. “They all seemed pretty nice… accommodating.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters sullenly. “They are Canadians. Polite and accommodating is kind of their thing, right?” A giant sigh issues out of him, his shoulders relaxing and posture slipping. “I guess we really got the most important thing anyway.”

A small, crooked smile pulls at Bruce’s lips as he turns his focus entirely on the route home. “Yeah. I guess so.”

000

The moment they arrive back at the compound, Clint and Natasha both are already in the hangar and ready to board the plane. Nat’s the first one up the plank, boarding the jet before Bruce even has all of the engines powered down. She pauses only briefly, when Tony steps out in front of her and holds up a stilling hand, telling her to, “Just wait.”

But… “Yeah,” she mutters, single eyebrow raised high. “Not gonna happen.”

She sidesteps him quickly, earning a dramatic eyeroll from the man as he’s hip-checked out of her way. Tony makes his way off the plane, glaring at Clint as he passes. The look is met with nothing more than a lighthearted chuckle, the likes of which none of them have heard – or emitted – in months.

“Barnes is on his way back now,” Natasha’s voice rings – soft and delicate – from just inside the jet. She leans over Tessa and unbuckles her seatbelt harness, tugging it off of her slowly, achingly carefully.

“You got ahold of him?” Bruce asks as he steps out of the cockpit.

She merely nods, never taking her eyes off of the woman in front of her. “I told him she was okay,” she murmurs before nodding towards Tessa. “You are okay, right?”

Tessa’s tired eyes veer up to meet her friend’s, her mouth dropping agape to answer. But no words come out, not a single one.

Natasha looks up at Bruce, looks to him for an answer, a slightly panicked warble to her voice. “Right?”

He leans down and wraps an arm around Tessa’s side, makes a move to sweep the other beneath her legs. And _then_ she speaks. “No,” a harsh and clipped word made all the worse by her croaking voice. She swallows thickly and reaches around to grab onto his shoulder so she can pull herself upright. “No,” she says again, this time calmer, more steadfast. “I can walk.”

“You have frostbite,” he argues, despite making no real move to stop her from rising. Instead he wraps his arm tighter around her, taking on as much of her weight as he can as she stands. His hand slips beneath the blankets as they fall away, and his fingers roll over the sharp, jutting bones of her hip. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that walking right now is a bad idea.”

She shoots him a piercing glare and repeats simply, “I can walk.”

Natasha quickly settles herself in on Tessa’s other side, realizing almost immediately that Bruce has pretty much the whole of her weight resting on him and doesn’t really need any help maneuvering her. But she sidles close none the less, wrapping Tessa’s arm around her and holding tightly to her bony wrist. As they make their way off the plane, she mutters under her breath something to the effect of, “So damn stubborn,” as a wide and wonderful smile rolls over her face.

The walk up to medical is slow and painstaking, Tessa simply refusing to be carried no matter how much they beg, no matter how many times they tell her that putting any weight at all on her utterly numb feet is a bad idea.

At first – annoyed though they certainly are with her obstinacy – they all laugh under their breath, good-natured taunts falling easily from their lips as they help her along. But for Bruce and Natasha, the amusement filters quickly away. They see the way she clings to them, her injured fingers bending awkwardly with the fierceness of her grip. They feel the way her body leans staunchly forward, every muscle taut, each limb – though weak – positioned at the ready. And they hear her teeth grinding slowly together, jaw clenching incessantly in a grating cadence as she continues to propel herself forward.

It isn’t typical Tessa stubbornness at play here. She isn’t trying to be tough or show how resilient she is or how capable she can be. She’s scared. She’s nervous. And she’s ready to run… even if she can barely walk.

They turn the corner into medical, enter the clinic, and all at once, all of her forward momentum stops. Bruce reels back and stumbles as Tessa pulls to a screeching halt just outside the exam room door. Her eyes go wide as they take in the room – hospital bed at its center, equipment lining the walls – and her heart begins to beat wildly, thrumming deafeningly in her ears. She pulls desperately out of Bruce’s grasp, nearly tumbling to the floor as she spins around and slips from Natasha’s grip as well.

“No. No, no, no, no…” comes out in a gasping stream of syllables from her trembling lips as she haphazardly falls into Clint.

She tries frantically to shove past him, but he wraps his arms firmly around her. “Hey,” he tries, holding her shaking body to his chest. “Hey, Doc… it’s okay,” he grunts out, his hold tightening as she claws at his neck, gathering his flesh and blood beneath her fingernails.

She weighs nothing at all, he realizes this as he easily hoists her into the air, preparing to carry her – despite the fight she’s putting on – into the exam room. It’s for her own good after all. It’s just like when his kids used to thrash and scream at the dentist. She might be frightened at the moment, but she _needs_ to get checked out.

He turns for the doorway, the steady flow of her, _no, no, no_ s resounding in his ear. But he stops short. Just before stepping over the threshold, his body stills and clenches as a sudden jolt of energy rocks him to his core. He lets out an odd, strangled gasp as his arms release her, dropping her to the tile floor before falling limp at his sides. He takes one awkward step back and his legs turn to jelly, collapsing beneath him and sending him tumbling down to the floor beside her.

Tessa scurries away from him, grabbing onto the doorjamb to hastily haul herself up. When she pulls her hand away from the wood, scorch marks are left crackling out along the frame of the door, and the gauze on her fingers falls away in fine wisps of ash.

Clint stares up at her dumfounded, working to catch his breath as Natasha drops down next to him, desperate to see what damage was done. A shocked utterance of, “Bruce?” leaves her lips as she continues to search his body for wounds.

All the while, Clint’s eyes remain glued to Tessa. As Natasha and Bruce tend to him, and Tony calls out to Friday, telling the AI to lock down the ward, he continues to watch the crazed woman in front of him, mesmerized by the delicate threads of bright blue light spinning around her hands. And by the deep red glow pulsating from her eyes.

But if she’s aware of the odd and beautiful energy bursting out of her, she certainly doesn’t show it. Instead, Tessa seems frantic. Terrified. Completely out of control.

She’s very nearly hyperventilating, each and every breath coming in fast, short gasps. And her still-rising pulse is loudly reverberating in her ears, blocking out all other sounds. She feels a red-hot fire burn within her, fusing with her blood and bones. It scalds her insides, feels like lava trying to force its way out of every tiny pore.

She spins wildly around, vision tunneling and cloaked along the edges by a deep and blinding light. Her hands feel about for something – anything – that can help steady her, guide her, help her to get out. _Out_. That’s all she can think. _Out. I need to get out._

The world around her blurs and burns and her senses dull in the way they do just before a fainting spell. She fights to stay conscious, shoves the heels of her hands into her eyes and lets loose a blood-curdling scream when she feels fire spread into her palms. She blinks violently and strains to focus on her hands, sees what looks to be bloody blisters spread across her flesh.

Blood. All she sees is blood.

“No, no, no, no, no,” begins to hum out of her once again, low and guttural and choked with pain and fear. “No, no, no.”

She tears her eyes away from her hands, thrusts them shut for the briefest of moments. The familiar tenor of Tony’s voice – calling for her, repeating her name – echoes out in the periphery. But… no. It can’t be him. Tony isn’t here. No one is here. _Tessa_ isn’t even here.

Her eyes fly open, muscles stiffen, every nerve in her body firing as she straightens upright, at the ready. She blinks quickly, desperate to dispel the blur. A sudden stomping – thick-soled shoes clomping on tile – sounds from her left and she spins wildly towards it, narrowing her eyes to see down the hall. The form never quite comes into focus, not really. But she can tell it’s a man… barreling towards her. A tall man, in a stark white lab coat. She cannot see his face. She cannot see anything except the blinding white of his coat… and the tiny glimmer from the syringe in his hand.

“Jessup, wait!” Tony calls out from behind, the warning lost not only to Tessa’s ears, but to Dr. Jessup’s as well.

She thrusts out her hand, an invisible wave of power – of energy – shooting out from her palm and stilling the advancing doctor mid-stride. The sedative he’d been carrying falls from his grip and clatters to the floor as he remains suspended in time and space. Her fingers twitch briefly, outstretched hand trembling as a beautiful amalgam of blue and red streams of light gather and dance around her blistered palm. She cocks her head slowly, thoughtfully, to the side as she watches the show. Then she pulls her fingers in – fisting the cool blue light along with the crackling red – and rapidly flicks them back out towards Jessup.

The doctor… explodes. Blood and viscera, shards of bone and bits of flesh shooting out in all directions, coating the hall in carnage.

Tessa turns, her eyes still blazing red, fingers still burning with bright tendrils of light. Sweat pours from her face as she desperately tugs at the zipper on her hoody, now feeling trapped not only by her surroundings, but by her clothes – her _body_ – as well. She doesn’t even seem to see the small group of people in front her, the three close friends cloaked in horror as they huddle at the end of the gruesome hallway.

Tony watches intently for just a beat of a moment before the glint of the felled syringe catches his eye. He jolts forward, sliding in blood and falling with a thud to the floor. He looks up to see that Tessa is still turned away from him, too preoccupied to have noticed his attempt. He quickly skids and crawls, moving as fast as he can to reach the syringe. The moment he grabs it, he pops upright, feet still slipping beneath him as he lunges forward and tackles the slight woman to the ground, stabbing the needle into her neck and thrusting down the plunger to deposit every last drop of the sedative into her body.

She goes limp beneath him and he slowly rolls off of her and onto his back, looking up at the blood-soaked ceiling just in time for a thick piece of flesh to drop off of an overhead light and land with soft splat atop his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... she's home...

**Author's Note:**

> We're working towards Civil War here, but - as you may have guessed - there will be a good deal of divergence. My plan is to do what the MCU couldn't and tie in the Mutant Registration Acts. But, well, this is obviously an AU, so who knows what will happen? As always, thank you so much for reading... and I hope you enjoy this next part of the series!


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